


Out of the Shadow

by trepkos



Series: Altered States [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Timeline, Angst, Biting, Brainwashing, Comedy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mad Scientists, Masturbation, Romance, Sexual Content, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trepkos/pseuds/trepkos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How will our star-crossed lovers find each other again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Try to Remember

**Night 13 continued.**

Riley Finn was nervous. He hardly knew how or why he'd taken it into his head to ask Buffy on a date, but he had. So now he found himself going to meet her, 'for coffee'.

He heaved a sigh. It wasn't that he didn't like Buffy; he liked her well enough; but he always felt awkward when trying to make small talk with girls he liked. Actually, he hated making small talk at all; so little in his life was small enough to fit.

Okay, in his head, that sounded like bragging, but he knew what he meant. He also knew from experience that Buffy was especially hard on the brain when a man was trying to form coherent sentences.

As it turned out, Buffy said she was hungry, so he thought food might get the conversation going, but when he saw the diner's laminated menu, Riley had to hope Buffy wasn't a food snob. Best not to talk about the food then.

Still, they had to talk about something. He dived in. "So, Buffy. How was your day?"

"Oh, you know. Studying. Hanging with my friends."

Evasive as usual: not giving him anything to latch onto.

"How 'bout you?" Buffy said.

And because she looked like she actually wanted to know, Riley decided to say what was on his mind. Maybe it would help clear his head. "It's been kinda strange actually. 'Groundhog Day' strange, except without the remembering-things part."

Buffy frowned. "More 'splainy?" she said.

He tried again. "Like … I don't quite remember where I'm supposed to be, or what I'm supposed to be doing, or whether who I am is who I want to be."

"I'm still not sure I get it," Buffy admitted.

He sighed. "Well, do you ever get the feeling you've forgotten something really, really important that you had to do? Or –" And this thought came unbidden into his mind: "– something really bad that you did, that you're supposed to feel guilty about?"

The memory of the encounter with the stranger outside Lowell House had come back; it was starting to bother him again.

~~

"Oh, I get that all the time," Buffy said, nodding vigorously. "The 'I've forgotten something' feeling anyway. It's usually related to homework."

Okay, probably not to sort of thing you should say to the TA. Quick: distract him with a light-hearted quip. "Not the 'doing something bad' feeling. I never give in to the Dark Side."

Riley was sadly oblivious to her feeble jest, but at least he didn't seem to be thinking about her homework either. He went on, "And then – and this is the weirdest part. Just before I came to meet you, some guy came running after me, like we were meant to be meeting up, and I didn't even recognise him. It looked like he'd been waiting outside for me, but then he said it was a mistake. But it couldn't have been, because he knew my name, he called me by it."

Buffy's eyes widened. "Riley, you have a stalker?" She was about to offer her assistance in dealing with the problem, but she remembered just in time that – in what passed for real life – little girls didn't usually offer protection to big men.

"No, I don't think he's stalking me. He just looked totally weirded-out that I didn't know him. Like I really should have. But I don't think I ever met him before."

She shrugged. "Well, you must meet a lot of people, being a TA and all. And you know how helpful you are. Perhaps you offered to tutor him? You can't expect to remember everybody you –"

"No," Riley interrupted, shaking his head. "I would have remembered this one. He was … distinctive."

Buffy was perking up at the thought of a mystery to solve. Not that she was un-perky to start with, but the small talk was pain in the ass, and this provided a welcome distraction.

"What did he look like?" she said.

"Well, like I said, he was distinctive. He was about five-eight, all in black, and kind-of emaciated. And he had bleached hair …"

… and talking of pains in the ass …

Buffy placed her cup carefully on the table, trying very hard not to slam it down and smash it to pieces.

Riley didn't notice. He was looking contemplatively into his coffee foam. "And I think he was wearing make-up."

That confirmed it. But why was Spike stalking her date? Oh, like, Spike wanted a reason to piss her off.

"Spike!" she said under her breath.

~~

The sound was like a tuning fork struck Riley's mind; he didn't know what it meant, but he wanted to. "What was that you said?" he demanded.

Buffy looked like she'd been caught smoking in school. "Spite!" she blurted out. "He might be following you out of spite."

She was a cripplingly poor liar. But what was she hiding?

"To get back at you for that bad thing you did," Buffy went on. "The thing you can't remember."

The more she blustered, the more Riley wanted to find out the truth.

Buffy played with the sugar lumps in the bowl. "This guy – Bleached Boy – he didn't try to … harm you did he? Like … bite you or anything like that?"

"Bite me? No."

This girl was definitely more clued-in to the darker side of Sunnydale than her slightly ditzy façade let on. But it was only their first date; way too early in the relationship – if that's what this was – for him to start cross-questioning her.

"I just heard it's a craze going round at the moment. Going up to strangers and ... biting them." Buffy hid her face behind the menu.

"Well, I hadn't heard of that one." Riley said: his mind spinning. "I guess it's all the cool kids that are doing it."

Had the guy he'd met earlier been a vampire? It didn't seem possible. He had been very pale, but not fangy or bumpy. If he was a vampire, the only place they were likely to have met before was in the Initiative. But how would a vamp have gotten out? And if he had, why would he approach Riley? For revenge?

But the stranger hadn't looked vengeful.

Riley noticed the waitress standing at their table, pointedly tapping her pen on the order pad. His mind fogged up. What had he just been thinking about?

Oh. What to order. That must be it.

Buffy ordered a cheeseburger with fries.

On impulse, Riley said, "I'll try the veggie-burger."

Buffy looked at him in mild surprise. "You converting?"

"No … I don't think so. Maybe." He smiled. "Just call it one for the cows. Choosin' life for a change."

Buffy looked at him quizzically. "You're a good man, Riley Finn."

"No," Riley said, without quite knowing why. "I don't think you say that."

He shivered. Even though it was night, he felt a shadow pass over the sun.

~~

Numb with shock, Spike stayed slumped at the foot of the tree for he didn't know how long; long enough that his eyes seemed to have finally run dry. Didn't have the will to get up. What would be the point?

Buffy Summers and Riley Finn: the perfect golden couple. No point hoping for an invite to the wedding.

Couldn't blame Riley. Wasn't the poor sod's fault he'd had his mind wiped. He'd given himself up to save Spike's wretched hide; and look where it had got them both.

He couldn't even summon up the energy to hate the Slayer.

It was hard to feel anything any more.

He was done; finished.

Riley had moved on.

What the fuck had Riley ever seen in him anyway?

He was a piece of trash. He'd used and manipulated Riley Finn, from the moment he first saw him, almost to the end. It was enough to make a bloke believe in karma.

This was what he deserved.

No; what he deserved was to have been left in that cell, where Riley'd found him.

He stood up creakily, spread his arms wide and turned his face to the sky.

"Come on then, you wankers!"

He'd tried to shout, but his voice came out cracked and loaded with still more tears.

"Hostile Seventeen here!"

He managed to belt that out with a bit more vigour. Didn't care if they caught him. Now he knew all was lost, he wanted them to catch him.

"Hostile Fucking Seventeen calling! Bring me in, my time is up!"

At least if he was down there, he might get the chance to see Riley again, and even if he couldn't see him, he'd know he was near.

"Come and get me, you bunch of idle tossers!"

The woods answered him with silence.

He took a deep breath and managed a good, loud bellow, and this time he aimed it at the ground.

"It's bloody buggering Hostile Seventeen. Are you lot sodding deaf down there?"

The grass made not a whisper in response.

"Fucking … come, will you?" His voice dropped and faltered. "Come and get me." He sank back down against another tree, weakly sobbing, "Come and get me. Please come …"

But no one came.

He was cold.

Suddenly everything seemed very clear.

Getting up; making one foot move in front of the other – it was hard, but there was just one more thing he had to do. Find a cemetery. There was always one handy.

He found one. Starting at the eastern end, he wandered along the rows, reading what was carved on the stones.

… 'In Loving Memory' … 'Dearly Beloved Wife'…

Everybody loves you when you're dead, don't they?

… 'Sorely Missed'…

He'd died in an alley. Dru and Angelus had buried him in a shallow grave; no epitaph. When he'd crawled out, he'd had to kill the only person who might have missed, or even remembered him.

…'Beloved Son'…

Each epitaph was a punch in the guts, but he didn't stop reading. He searched and read, searched and read until he found the grave of one – 'Sorely Missed' – who, like himself, had shuffled off this mortal coil in 1880. It was a girl, but it didn't matter. He was a drama queen after all. Cried like a girl, so fucking what, who cared?

He lay down on the slab.

Closed his eyes, crossed his hands over his chest and just lay there.

And though he lay as cold and still as the stone beneath him, it felt as if he were ticking: a metronome, ticking away eternity – so fucking tired. The universe seemed both unbearably far away – a distant, delicate flower on a black expanse – and oppressively close, crushing down inside his eyelids. Had the skies come down to smother him? Or had the grave on which he was lying soared up like a beanstalk, elevating him to the heavens?

Thinking about it made him nauseous.

Then he was sinking through an endless dark tunnel.

He would lie here.

He would lie here all night.

He prayed that when morning came, it would not be a cloudy day. When the sun rose, maybe – just maybe – for a brief glorious moment, he would feel a glimmer of the warmth with which Riley had filled him, in those few dark hours before dawn.

Tomorrow morning, when he was dust, the memory of that night would be gone forever.

It couldn't come soon enough.

~~

Riley wasn't sleeping so well. He was having some disturbing dreams.

First his mother called to tell him that she was shamed before the family when she heard about the murder; that made him late to meet Buffy.

Then he was supposed to turn up for duty, but he was distracted, picking flowers for Buffy in a field.

A unicorn appeared in the field. He'd seen it before, but he couldn't remember where. It looked at him with an expression of such sadness that he felt his heart might break.

When he looked again, he saw a wooden stake in its chest. It was haemorrhaging badly. The creature turned and cantered slowly away, looking back over its shoulder. It had blue eyes.

He wanted to follow it – try to catch it, maybe take it to a vet; but you have to be a virgin to catch a unicorn, and anyway he found he couldn't take a single step.

Then he saw why he couldn't move.

He was a cake.

He tried to say, 'Eat me', but no sound came.

~~

"Hey feller, what 'cher doin?"

The irrepressibly friendly and vaguely familiar voice jolted Spike out of his self-induced coma. He groaned.

"Stargazin, huh?" the voice went on. "They sure are beautiful tonight, aren't they?"

Without opening his eyes, Spike responded in a flat tone, "Please, oh, please, just fuck off and let me die."

"Don't you want to take me for a few more dollars?" said the voice. "I promise I ain't been practising."

With a supreme effort of will, Spike opened one weary eyelid and took in the blood-hound features of one of the demons he'd hustled a few nights ago. That was before any hope he'd had was crushed. It seemed like forever away.

The hideously flabby-skinned creature was looking down on him with such naïve optimism – such kindness – that Spike could hardly stand to see it.

"How about a game of kitten poker?" the demon said. "There's one set up down at The Fish Tank."

Spike was barely able to summon up the energy to speak, but he could see this chummy fellow wouldn't go away unanswered. "Clem, isn't it?" he said.

Clem nodded cheerily.

"Well, Clem, I don't eat kittens. Fur gets stuck in the fangs."

"Well, how's about we just have a few beers?" Clem said, his head on one side.

"I'm going teetotal," Spike told him.

That, at least, was true. Spike was planning on being totally dehydrated in a few hours.

"Oh. Okey dokey then. See you round."

"Yeah, whatever."

Spike sighed and closed his eyes again.

~~

**Day 14**

Clem was heading back to his cave. It hadn't been a very profitable evening; he'd only come away with two tiny tabbies, but it didn't really matter. He never had the heart to eat the little fur balls. He'd left these two in his wicker basket on some human's doorstep. Humans liked kittens, didn't they?

But what was this? His playmate of a few nights ago was still lying there on the slab, with his arms across his chest.

Couldn't leave him there – oh no! That would never do! The sun would soon be up.

He went over to the sleeping vampire and patted him on the arm.

Before he could blink in surprise, Clem felt Spike's hands around his throat. The vampire hadn't even opened his eyes.

When he did open one of them, he let go of Clem at once. "Oh. It's you," he said.

~~

"Hey, it's nearly sunrise. I thought you vamps knew when to get inside. Don't you have some sort of sixth sense?"

"No, we have watches," Spike said blandly. "And I don't want to get inside. I'm old and I'm cold and I'm sick of trying. I've had enough." He put a hand over his eyes to avoid seeing Clem's worried look. "Don't trouble yourself over me."

"Come on Spike – it _is_ Spike, isn't it?"

"Last time I looked, yeah."

"Well, Spike, remember this. However bad things get, there's always someone worse off than you are."

Spike sighed deeply. "Only a sociopath would find that thought comforting."

"Well, have you tried looking on the bright side? Stopping to smell the roses?"

Clem wasn't one of the more fearsomely armed demons, but apparently he had plenty of platitudes in his arsenal. Oh well; fight fire with fire.

"Haven't you heard the song? Every rose has its thorns, Clem. The last one I sniffed pricked me on the nose, so just go away and take your roses and your bright side with you."

He crossed his hands over his chest again, and closed his eyes. But when he opened them again a few moments later Clem was still hovering around, a look of busy concern furrowing his already creased brow. What would it take to make the penny drop?

"If you must know, sunrise is what I'm waiting for," Spike said. "I'm looking forward to it. That side bright enough for you?"

"Waiting for …" Clem cocked his head. "But that will …"

Spike gave him a desiccating look. "Kill me? Oh, dear, I hadn't realised. Good job you warned me. Thank you so much. You're a good friend. Now _piss off._"

But Clem was thick-skinned, yes he was.

"Come on, Spike! You know what they say. Look for the silver lining! It can't be as bad as all that."

This was getting tiresome.

"It is, okay? It is that bad. It's worse than that bad. And silver's not worth squat these days, if you hadn't heard." Spike sat up suddenly. "Now will you please, _**SOD OFF AND LET ME DIE WITH DIGNITY!**_"

While Clem jumped backwards to avoid getting head-butted, he seemed unimpressed by the sudden wall of sound, or by the fangs and bumpy face. "Come on Spike, don't take on so. We all get down sometimes – have a bad day."

"Yeah, right." Spike lay back down on the stone. He didn't actually believe that this remorselessly cheerful fellow had ever had a bad day.

Clem folded his arms obstinately. "Things might look bad now, but good times are just around the corner, you'll see. You just have to soldier on."

Spike winced and rolled onto his side facing away from Clem; who responded by walking around the grave on which Spike was lying, and peering into his face.

"Has someone been upsetting you?"

Exhausted by his earlier outburst, Spike could now barely raise an eyebrow. "You could say that, yeah."

"Well, I'm sure whoever they might be, they're not worth killing yourself over."

Spike was just about to set Clem straight on that score when he heard a sound about twenty yards away. He put a finger to Clem's baggy lips, and listened. Someone was speaking into a walkie-talkie – calling for back-up – and he could even hear a crackly response, though he couldn't decipher its contents.

Fuck.

Initiative boys.

That was all he needed.

Couldn't a fellow even commit suicide in peace?

A few hours earlier, he'd have been happy for the Initiative to take him back below; but seeing Riley now, after the night he'd spent, and having Riley not even recognise him …

Anyway, his baggy-skinned would-be benefactor was likely to get caught as well, and that wouldn't be fair. Spike heaved a sigh, and rolled off the tomb, dragging Clem to the ground with him, so they'd both be shielded from view if the soldier pointed his flashlight this way.

"No need to be like –"

Spike clapped a hand over Clem's mouth to shut him up, and whispered in his ear, "If you want your internal organs left where they belong, we need to get out of here. Comprendez?"

His eyes like saucers, Clem nodded.

"Where do you live?" Spike whispered urgently.

There was a muffled sound, which continued until Spike remembered to take his hand off Clem's mouth.

"About two minutes away. It's only a cave, but I've done it up –"

Spike's hand went back over Clem's mouth. "Less talking. More leading the way."

Clem made as if to stand up but Spike pulled him down again. "Crawling, not walking. I'll watch your back, for all the good I can do against these guys. Keep low, and keep quiet."

As they made off, zig-zagging between the tombstones, Spike wondered where he'd suddenly picked up that white hat.

~~

He was a cake?

The part of Riley's brain that was already waking up told him he watched way too much Star Trek.

His alarm clock tweeted.

He picked up his bottle of vitamin pills.

Did he really need vitamins? He ate pretty well.

Perhaps he wouldn't take one today.

He put the bottle down again.

He did some press-ups.

~~

Spike lay shivering under one of Clem's homemade quilted eiderdowns.

Clem had a lot of the cheerful chaotic patchworks. They had all been made by his girlfriend. She obviously wasn't the same species as he was, or she'd have kept getting her skin trapped in the sewing machine. Though Spike was sorely tempted to mention this observation, the surroundings somehow made it impossible for him to be so impolite.

The whole cave – apart from the narrow tunnel that led back into the hillside – was done out like it was inhabited by an insane colour-blind granny; it was festooned with lace doilies and anti-maccassars and floral prints, and populated by hundreds of china animals of all breeds and sizes, painted in unrealistic hues.

In short, it was homely.

They'd arrived here without further contact with the enemy, and once inside, Spike had allowed one of the voluminous easy chairs to engulf him.

Despite Spike's protests that he didn't want anything, Clem at once set about making a brew, and placed a fabulously old and expensive bone china tea set on the table in front of Spike. The pattern looked painfully familiar. Spike had seen his mum serve tea in one just like it, a thousands times, and it nearly set off the waterworks again.

Clem must have noticed, because he sat on the arm of Spike's chair and patted him on the shoulder; an intimacy Spike allowed without complaint.

"So. What was so bad you wanted to end it all, Spike?"

His new pal had momentarily shed the upbeat tone, and Spike was almost tempted to tell him everything – just spill it all out; but it was too raw. Even thinking about it was more than he could bear. Instead, Spike just shook his head, and curled up in the chair, clutching his teacup with both hands to warm them.

"Can't talk about it," he muttered.

"Okay then."

Clem left him in peace for half an hour while he bustled around with firewood and a kettle. Then Spike found himself being hustled into bed with a hot water bottle. Resistance – apparently – was futile.

When Spike was settled, Clem said, "I have to go out now, and do some shopping. Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

Then the covers were being tucked in.

Then Spike felt a dry, rather flabby kiss being planted on his cheek.

As Clem left the cave he said, "Sleep tight."

~~

Spike was disgusted with himself.

Why was he lying here, under a patchwork quilt, in a random demon's comfy bed, when he should have been blowing in the wind?

Toss up between Good Samaritanning, and lack of guts.

If he'd really wanted to get caught, he could have made himself conspicuous and led the Initiative boys away from Clem: killed two birds with one stone. But his insides had collapsed. Bloody duvet had more stuffing in it than he did.

At last, he fell into a light sleep, but there was no relief there. Well, there was, but of the wrong kind. Not the unconsciousness kind.

He dreamed about Riley.

No disguise.   
No metaphor.   
No symbols.  
No puns.   
No abstruse meaning.  
No complex layers of narrative concealing repressed desires.

Just himself and Riley Finn: lying together in a field of grasses and red clover.

The sun beat harmlessly down upon them. Riley was leaning over him, stroking his face, kissing him softly on the lips, his tongue making gentle, idle explorations of his mouth. The hum of insects soothing them; their love-making observed only by the birds, and the beasts of the field; their bodies moved against each other in a languid, asynchronous accord.

They were both aroused, but they had all the time in the world. Riley was holding him now, and he was holding Riley. Spike bit his lower lip and looked into Riley's eyes; he saw himself reflected there.

"You don't have to be cold," Riley said. "Not any more."

Spike pressed into Riley's hand. He felt the promised heat spread across his loins, and up through his torso, all the way to his heart. It started beating.

Spike started to come in a bright rainbow shower arcing over both of them, and Riley said, "We're dreaming this together."

But Spike didn't want it to be a dream; he wanted it to be real. He struggled to hold onto the dream; pressed his eyes closed, to stop the cold hand of reality prying them open on a day he didn't want to face.

Then he was spilling himself into Clem's quilt, moaning in shame and thwarted desire as he grasped himself to stop himself making it any worse; crying to dream again.

Surely this must be the lowest place yet.

Groaning, he shrugged out of bed and somehow made it to the far end of the cave. There wasn't much left to empty, miserable and alone, in that sordid alcove, and what there was, he covered with some rubble. He hoped Clem's nose wasn't too sensitive.

But what the fuck was he going to do about the quilt?

There was nothing _to_ do.

He'd have to own up.

Suddenly furious, he shook his head at his stupidity. Own up? Where was he: in prep school? Back in Angelus' household? He didn't need to own up to anything. He could wank over every sodding crocheted tablemat and cushion cover in the place if he wanted.

Clem was a demon, and not an especially powerful one at that. He could easily snap Clem's flabby neck with his bare hands; then there'd be no need to be embarrassed. And there was plenty stuff here he could use as a weapon if he wanted: cutlery, rocks … heavy ornaments.

He played it out in his head: Clem coming in with his shopping, humming the theme tune to 'Hawaii Five-0' or something equally retro-pathetic; Spike, concealed at the cave entrance, hitting Clem on the back of the head with that whopping great china leopard.

Then he snorted at himself.

Who the bloody hell was he trying to kid? He could no more kill Clem than he could have killed Buffy's mum, bless 'er. Clem was a bit annoying, but he was okay. He'd treated Spike alright. Shouldn't kill blokes for trying to be nice to you – didn't make sense.

He'd been taught – and even managed to convince himself – that this was weak and foolish; sentimental; something to be ashamed of. But that was one lesson he was ignoring from now on. Sod Angelus. Like _his_ life was such a shining example.

After hunting around for ages, Spike managed to find some tissues to clean himself up. They were artfully concealed under an embroidered and appliquéd tissue-dispenser, disguised as a window box. He couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. Clem really gave demon-kind a bad name.

By the time Clem came back from wherever he'd been, Spike was up and dressed, and putting a brave face on it. He'd rolled up the offending quilt.

"Really sorry mate, but d'you have a laundry basket I can drop this in?"

~~

 

**Night 14**

Riley put the phone down.

Buffy had said she couldn't meet him tonight.

Riley could have sworn she'd said she was 'going to check out willies', but – into his puzzled silence – she'd quickly clarified, "I have to check out 'Free Willy'. From the video shop. And 'Thelma and Louise.'"

Then, apparently, she and her mom were planning to watch videos and eat popcorn.

That was what she'd said.

The ideas pin-balled around the bagatelle of his brain, trying to find a slot to rest in.

For the first time, he noticed that the photo of his family was face down. He went to set it right; ran his fingers around the frame. A wash of nostalgia swept through him. He missed his Mom; he wanted to go home. He looked at the calendar on the wall: pictures of the mid-west. What day was it?

Realisation hit him like a thunderbolt: he'd missed his flight home for Thanksgiving.

How had that happened? What can he have been thinking? How could he have been so absorbed in his work as to forget to fly home? Especially as he couldn't even remember what work he'd been doing.

Riley picked up the phone. At the very least he ought to call home and let them know he wouldn't be there. But then he put it down again. He couldn't think of any excuse, or how to apologise.

Maybe it would be better to write down what he was going to say. He needed time to think. For some reason, it was just too much; he couldn't cope with it right now. He felt confused; on edge; lacking something, but he didn't know what. Was there a guy equivalent to PMT? If so, he felt like he had a terminal case.

He opened one of the top drawers of the dressing table drawer to get out his writing paper, but it was the wrong drawer.

Everything this last day or so was giving him a disturbing sense of déjà vu.

Exactly when had it started?

Yesterday morning: that was it. He went across to his pack, got the sharpened tent peg out of the side-pocket, and sat on the edge of the bed, turning the home-made stake around and over in his hands.

His mind tried to slide away again, to thoughts of Buffy, but he dragged it back. There was something he was supposed to be doing. Stashing the stake in his pocket, he scanned the room, looking for any other indications that something was off; any clues as to why he felt this way.

He spotted a glint of metal on the floor on the other side of the room. When he went to see what was there, it turned out to be one of his medals: the Legion of Merit. It looked like it was rusting, but when he looked more closely, he saw that the staining on it was blood. As he turned it in the palm of his right hand, it fit perfectly into some half-healed puncture wounds he'd forgotten were there.

Then he noticed a couple of small brown stains on the floor near the bed. He must have sat on the bed, gripping the medal so hard that it had pierced the skin, and the blood had dripped on the floor. Then he'd thrown the medal across the room.

The image rang true, and the words, 'Make me proud' flashed through his mind. With it, came the thought that he really had murdered someone, just like his mom had said in his dream.

What if he had?

What if he had, and the army had covered it up? Somehow made him forget, so they wouldn't have to lose him, or to face the publicity?

Riley was wracked with guilt, though he wasn't sure what he'd done. He had to find out: but how? If the military had somehow been responsible for his amnesia, they sure as hell wouldn't tell him.

The stake; the medal; the picture of his mom: how did they fit together?

He'd have asked Forrest or Graham if they knew anything, but when he'd gone down to the base last night, he'd been told they were both home on leave. But they hadn't said they were going home; hadn't said good-bye. That wasn't like either of them.

Riley was beginning to doubt things that he'd been told; starting to feel a slow-burning anger growing in his belly. Needing some air, he went outside to walk under the stars.

It was cool and he felt better for it; the mental fog was lifting.

Something had been done to him.

Something had been taken from him.

Something he wanted, though he didn't know what it was.

Not yet.

But he was going to find out.

As he passed the tree under his window, he noticed some cigarette butts on the ground: four – no, five. Someone had smoked five cigarettes here. Then Riley remembered the stranger he'd met the night before; the stranger who knew his name.

Who knew where he lived.

It had only been last night, but he'd had almost forgotten the encounter already. That, in itself, was suspicious. He was certain, now, this man was important. Perhaps he was even the key to it all.

He wouldn't forget again.

And Buffy had asked if the guy had tried to bite him. Maybe the guy was a vampire. Perhaps that was what the stake had been for – self-defence? But the stranger hadn't looked like he wanted to harm Riley; far from it.

Why would a vampire be looking for him; waiting for him? Surely he must know something; perhaps wanted to tell him something.

Riley needed to find him.

He knew how to find vampires, but how to find a specific vampire – that was more of a challenge. Maybe you could set a vampire to catch a vampire.

He went to the nearest cemetery, looking for fresh graves. When he found one, he sat and waited. He was lucky; luckier than the occupant anyway. It wasn't long before the earth began to move. Riley watched in fascination as the ground turned and a hand appeared, grasping.

Then he cursed himself as an idiot.

It wasn't likely that a newly-risen vampire would come out of the ground with a copy of the 'Vampire's Rough Guide to Southern California' in its pocket. It would be just as ignorant as Riley, about where blood-suckers went for a night out. Feeling oddly unhappy about it – like it was cheating or something – he dragged the struggling vampire out of bed and staked him.

It was easier than he'd expected considering he'd never done it before: so far as he could remember ...

It took him half the night to find an obvious vampire out on the hunt – well, lurking outside one of the dorms anyway. It was a female, a blonde. He crept up behind it – her; grabbed her, and held her against a tree, with his stake poised over her heart.

The vampire shed her game-face with a defeated sigh. She was a bit too made-up but pretty.

"Huh! Everyone's getting in on the act now!" she said. "What is this, open season? Is there a 'V' in the month? First it's just the Slayer we have to worry about. Then we gotta look out for the army too. Now even the students are coming up and staking us. It's not fair."

Riley was confused. The undead were protesting about unfair treatment now? And who or what was 'the Slayer'? "Look," he said. "I just need to find a vampire."

Harmony – for it was she – rolled her eyes. "Well, duh!"

"Not you. A specific vampire. A guy-vampire. I don't know his name." He paused, because the next question sounded ridiculous. "Do vampires – hang out? Go somewhere to … I don't know … socialise?"

"Well there's a couple of bars, both pretty skanky," she said, her tone apologetic. "You _**really**_ don't want to go to 'The Fish Tank' – trust me."

Disconcertingly, Riley found that he did.

"But you could try the other one," she said. "You'd probably be safe at 'Willy's Place'."

That sounded familiar. Riley paid close attention as she gave him directions. When she'd finished, he said, "Thanks. That's very helpful." He'd forgotten that this was an interrogation.

She shrugged. "Willy will probably know where your … friend, enemy, whatever he is ..." She frowned and cocked her head, wrestling with the grammar, then added, "is."

Then she heaved a sigh. "I guess you're going to stake me now." She flattened herself against the tree-trunk, but didn't try to escape. "Go ahead. Put me down like a dog. Being a vampire's pretty rank anyway – not like on TV, all floaty capes and castles and stuff." She screwed her eyes tight shut, waiting for the killing blow.

Riley let go of her and backed away. "No. You get a free pass. Just, stay off campus for a while, okay? Leave the students off the menu."

Her eyes widened. She nodded eagerly, turned and fled, as fast as her stilettos would carry her.

Feeling oddly relieved, Riley watched her go.

~~

Spike was sitting on one of Clem's over-plumped sofas, brooding.

Yes, that's what he was doing.

And why shouldn't he?

He had as much right to brood as the next vampire. There wasn't anything else he felt like doing. Didn't want to stay in; didn't want to go out; didn't want blood, even though Clem had apparently been to Demon Mall especially to get him a bottle of the stuff, with a kitsch little label on it that read, 'Master's Choice: Suppliers of Fine Bloods since 1937'. He'd tried – out of good manners – to drink a tumbler-full, and managed to keep some of it down, with difficulty and a dash of Glenfiddich.

Give Clem his due: even if his taste in décor was a disaster in a wallpaper factory, he knew his liquor.

Without thinking, Spike reached for his fags, and drew out the packet Riley had given him. He'd long since smoked the last of the contents, but he hadn't had the heart to chuck the box away. Now he just stared at it; unable to crumple it – throw it out; unable to put it away again. Stared at the box sitting in his hand, Warholesque; prosaic; and symbolising everything he'd so briefly thought was his: now burned to ashes in his mouth.

Clem didn't disturb his reverie for some time.

But after about two hours, he rubbed his hands together heartily and said, "Okay, Spikey. What's it to be? Shall we go to the bar? Or I could get some videos in, and some popcorn?"

Spike shook his head. "No thanks." Then he looked up, slightly intrigued despite himself. "I didn't see a telly in here."

Clem pointed to a television-shaped object, swathed in coloured fabric.

Well, that mystery hadn't lasted long.

Spike looked back down at the cigarette packet.

"Come on Spike, snap out of it," Clem said. "It can't be so bad. What doesn't kill us makes us stronger."

Spike gritted his teeth and said nothing.

"You know, one day you'll find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, if you only keep looking!"

That did it. The unremitting, grating cheerfulness finally had Spike on his feet, and diving across the room, pinning the startled Clem to the wall and roaring in his face, **"JUST SHUT THE BLOODY FUCK UP WILL YOU?"**

Various appendages immediately sprang out of Clem's face.

That caused Spike a momentary double-take. He must have really scared the poor bloke. Regretting his outburst, he a muttered an apology and carefully lowered Clem the few inches to the floor. He rubbed a hand across his eyes.

Clem patted himself down and retracted his facial pop-outs. Then he pottered away, humming, and putting the kettle on; clearly upset, but trying to pretend it was okay for house guests to assault their hosts; sending Spike even further into the Land of Wrong.

Spike felt such a heel, that he gave in. "Look, we can go out if you like, okay? Go to Willy's." Why the hell not? But he was already running out of steam. "Whatever."

Clem turned round with a triumphant grin. "That's the spirit!"

So out they went.

To Willy's.

~~

Now Spike was drifting, like a dry leaf on the wind. He wondered idly whether he might be able to piss someone off enough that they'd kill him. He was worth a dusting, surely? Slayer might show; she'd probably do for him, if he begged: her rather puzzling record of failure in that area notwithstanding.

But Buffy didn't co-operate. Willy said she'd been in earlier, wanting information about him. He claimed to have told her nothing, and Spike believed him.

No one else had asked after him.

He tried to drum up enough enthusiasm to join Clem in a discussion of the cultural significance of 'Baywatch', and whether the Six Million Dollar Man would have beaten the Six Million Dollar Woman in a fist-fight. Both topics would normally have engaged his attention for some time, but right now, it hardly seemed worth drawing breath to speak.

Even so, Spike managed to get through the first ten minutes without mishap.

At least no one bothered him. There was a mellow vibe in the place tonight. That was okay, until someone put Nat King Cole on the jukebox, singing 'Autumn Leaves'. The song took him back to Ronnie Scott's – around 1961 it must have been. He and Dru had danced to this very song, played by a little jazz quartet. The bass player had been right in the zone.

The blood had been sweeter in those days: not full of so much artificial crap as it is now.

Good times.

But as the record played on, all thoughts of Drusilla burned away like morning mist in summer. He sank his head on his arms. This song wasn't anything to do with Drusilla – not any more, not for him.

'Since you went away the days grow long  
And soon I'll hear old winter's song  
But I miss you most of all, my darling …'

Spike stood up, sending his barstool clattering to the floor. Going to find the Slayer; tell her something – anything – to get her to put him out of his misery. Tell her he'd shagged her boyfriend: two of 'em actually.

That oughta do it.

Without a word to Clem, or Willy – not wanting anyone to try and stop him this time – he headed for the door.

And walked straight into Riley Finn.

~~

Riley had thought he was prepared for whatever might happen.

Walking into a demon bar for the first time? No problem. He was unarmed – apart from his knife and the sharpened tent peg – but what the hell. Just have to make like he went into demon bars every day of his life, and try not to stare at the clientele. Go up to the bar, talk to Willy – whoever or whatever he was – and ask him whether he knew the guy he was looking for; if he was a regular there, or if Willy knew where he might be found.

He was set; focussed; determined.

What he wasn't expecting was to locate his target so easily. On walking straight into him, Riley was too surprised to stop the guy from swaying back and bolting around him and out of the bar. By the time Riley got outside, the flighty stranger was disappearing around a corner, heading out of town.

He called after him, "Hey, I need to talk to you!" But the vampire – if he _was_ a vampire – clearly didn't feel like chatting.

Determined not to lose his quarry, Riley took off after him at a dead run. He managed to keep him in sight, though he wasn't gaining much ground and never got within striking distance. They ran through the Sunnydale night, pursuer and pursued, under the same stars.

Eventually the man seemed to be tiring. He slowed down and resorted to making detours, apparently trying to throw Riley off the scent with changes of pace and direction.

Turning a corner, Riley saw the end of the man's long coat flick around the gate of a very familiar-looking cemetery. Well, they were all familiar if you were in the Initiative, but this one struck a particular chord in Riley's mind. He slowed down as he reached the gate, which was lucky, because he caught his foot on the edge of a manhole cover that hadn't been properly replaced, and he stumbled and almost went flying.

That manhole cover seemed significant; but he didn't have time to contemplate it if he was going to catch up with his man.

He went through the gates and ran at a crouch from one gravestone to the next, looking around and listening intently. There was a sound from further in: a muffled thud, followed by what might have been a curse. The man was still here; just have to try to get near him.

Riley spotted a large mausoleum, ten or so yards away that would provide more cover, so he made a run for it, flattened himself against the side and slid around the edge.

A female statue – a caryatid – stood at each corner of the memorial. Riley didn't know where he'd picked up that name for them, but he was embarrassed to find that he had indecently assaulted the one at the north-east corner. He quickly removed his left hand from a stone breast.

"Sorry," he whispered, and felt foolish.

He moved round to the eastern elevation, where the door was situated. It had been smashed in. With a prickly feeling growing inside him, Riley peered into the desecrated chamber. He got out his flashlight and pointed it inside.

~~

Now, Spike was the hunter, and Riley the prey. Not a very efficient hunter: he'd just stubbed his toe on one of those marble cubes they stand the vases in; and not that he wanted to hurt Riley.

Not that he could.

He'd taken to his heels when he'd met Riley coming into the bar, but not in fear for his life. Though Riley looked like he might have been about to kill someone, that wasn't what had scared him. Riley was welcome to kill him, if that was what he'd come for. What Spike couldn't stand – didn't want to see – was those candid grey eyes looking at him, and not knowing who he was.

But God, did he want to see Riley.

It felt like his heart was pounding, even though he knew it couldn't be. He was crouched behind one of the larger tombstones, watching as Riley insinuated around the edge of the Van Outen Memorial. Logic having long since fled his brain, Spike was trying to stay hidden, but at the same time, willing Riley to have x-ray vision; willing him to see him; to see him, and to remember.

Was it possible?

He'd led Riley here, on a faint hope.

Could Riley's memory be coming back?

He'd shown up at Willy's after all.

Maybe he'd already remembered, and freaked because of the vampire issue, or the both-being-blokes thing. Maybe he'd come looking for Spike to make sure he never had the chance to put a black mark on his service record again.

Suddenly, Spike didn't know why he was bothering to hide.

It was foolishness.

Riley would know him, or he wouldn't. Either way, he had to find out. Nothing could make things any worse. He stood up, went towards the spot where Riley stood shining his torch into the darkness, then followed Riley into the tomb.

~~

Riley swept the interior of the mausoleum with his flashlight. The beam revealed a perplexing still life: a familiar-looking piece of ironwork, with a set of Initiative-issue handcuffs dangling from it; a groundsheet, spread out on the floor: his groundsheet. He knew it was his, because his name was printed on it in indelible ink, in his own neat capitals. A flak jacket and tee shirt: also his. An Initiative-issue radio.

A tube of medical lubricant.

Riley felt a thrill run through him.

He heard a sharp intake of breath, and turned to see his quarry standing just inside the doorway.

In the distance, a clock chimed midnight.

"What happened here?" Riley demanded.

The stranger began to speak, then frowned, as half-formed words died on his lips. He seemed to be struggling to answer the question, and at last he simply said, "What didn't?"

Riley covered the few strides between them and pushed him – unresisting – up against the wall.

"You know something. Something I've forgotten." Riley looked urgently at the stranger, but his face was turned aside, as though the man was afraid to look at him; every muscle in his body was taut, and … oh … he was hard.

Riley blinked, processing.

"Please … they made me forget. Just tell me what's going on."

~~

Spike knew his lips were still moving; words jostled with each other, trying to make themselves heard, but there was just so much he wanted to say that nothing could get out.

Riley released his hold.

Out of the corner of his eye, Spike saw him reach into one of his pockets and pull out a stake.

Spike flattened himself against the wall, but he didn't try to flee.

"Why have I got this?" Riley demanded. He held the stake in front of Spike's face. "Tell me!"

Fuck. This new Riley was a sadist.

That was a bit of a shock.

Didn't matter.

Riley Finn could do what he liked; could ram that stake up Spike's arse if he wanted, if he would only remember who he was. Trying to keep his voice level, Spike replied, "All the better to stake me with, Granny?"

Riley held the point at Spike's chest. "So, you _are_ a vampire?"

Nothing to lose. "Well, yeah …"

"Then show me."

Today was a good day to die.

Breathing deeply in an effort to calm himself, Spike slowly let the demon surface; let blue eyes fleck with gold, then give way to it; let flat teeth sharpen, and smooth skin crease and swell to turgid ridges.

Riley's only reaction – a gasp of wonder.

Marvelling at his continued existence, Spike tilted his head to one side, and that too, made Riley's breathing hitch.

"So. Now you've seen. Are you gonna do me?" He licked the tip of one of his fangs, bloodying his tongue. "Be doin' a bloke a favour."

Riley frowned. "'Do' you?" he said.

"Kill me," Spike carefully supplied.

"What?" Riley's eyes widened. "No!"

"Why are you pointing that thing at me then, mate?"

Spike glanced down at the stake, and then lower to where Riley's cock was pressed against his own: separated by their clothing, but neither of them unaware of it. "Accidents will happen you know."

Riley threw the stake aside.

~~

"I don't want to kill you," Riley said vehemently. "I want … information. Even if _you_ kill _me_, please, just tell me first. I have to know, what's going on? What happened here?" He glanced at the cuffs. "Are we enemies? Did we fight?" He looked down at the groundsheet; the lube.

"Did we …"

The thought was incredible until he looked into the hungry depths of those lion's eyes, and then it was even more astounding: that he might have joined himself with this wild and compelling stranger: this vampire. A flush spread through him.

"Were we … intimate?"

At these words, the vampire's eyes glowed like coals. "You could call it that."

Riley shook his head, not in denial but in anger. "I don't remember!" He gripped the man's shoulders. "I want to, but I don't. Help me. Tell me something – anything. Please _make me remember_."

~~

Such loss and loneliness; such regret.

A bubble of hope expanded painfully in Spike's chest.

"Would if I could, love. Don't know how. Don't know what they did to you."

Spike looked away again, afraid of what he was about to say. "Maybe you can't remember. Maybe if you do, it'll hurt you. Like what they did to me."

"What was that? What did they do?"

"Initiative – your lot – put a gizmo in my head that stops me fighting humans. Zaps me if I hit 'em, stops me biting anyone. Stops me feeding."

Riley shook his head. "But I had bite marks on my chest, my back. Did you do that? Was that why they –"

"Can bite you if you let me." Spike shivered, remembering. "If you want it. And you did. Before …"

Riley pulled down the collar of his shirt and bared his neck. "Bite me again. I have to know –"

Spike pulled back, his nostrils flaring, as he tried to stay in control. "Don't ever do that, Riley!" he flashed out.

Riley recoiled as if Spike had slapped him.

The first time Spike had dared call Riley by name this night, and it had to be a reprimand. Spike could feel that the kid was blushing furiously in the dark, and though he was sorry for it, he couldn't afford to let him off the hook. "Didn't you mother ever warn you never to bare your neck to a vampire?" he growled.

"Please." Riley closed his eyes and begged, "I want it."

Spike shook his head, as much to deny himself as Riley. The scent of the blood – Riley's blood – so close and offered freely, was driving him near to the edge of reason. "No. Not from there. I couldn't stop myself taking too much. Not after everything …"

"Then where?" Riley pleaded.

Spike reached to take Riley's left hand, where the wound was still raw. He raised the hand to his mouth, inhaled deeply and brushed his lips across the torn flesh. "Ask me again," Spike said softly.

Riley moaned. "Bite me. Take as much as –"

Spike clapped a hand over Riley's mouth. "Take that back," he said thickly.

Riley's eyes were confused and fearful.

"God, you like to play with fire, don't you?" Spike said. He took his hand from Riley's lips, let it slide down the side of his neck in a sinuous caress, and further down until it rested splayed over Riley's heart. "Don't want to hurt you. Don't throw the door wide open for me, not like that. I might not be able to stop myself. Understand?"

Riley nodded mutely.

"Sure you want this?" Spike's eyes flared briefly.

"I want it. I want to remember. Maybe this is the way."

"And if it's not?" Spike said.

"I want it."

"Then promise me one thing," Spike said.

"What is it?" Riley said quickly. "Anything."

"If this doesn't work …"

Spike let the demon face slip, and dared to look straight into Riley's eyes for the first time, because it might be the last.

"If you can't remember, you must promise to stake me."

Riley backed away, his eyes wide with horror. "No! Why?"

Spike turned away. "Just promise me –"

"No!"

"Fine. No deal then. Just have to do it myself."

Spike pushed past Riley and made a dive towards the stake, but Riley bent and snatched it up from where he'd thrown it.

"Okay," Riley said. He still looked doubtful. "It's a promise, okay?"

Spike turned back. "An Iowa Promise," he said, half to himself.

A shadow of – something – passed across Riley's face, and the hope it gave Spike nearly blew his fragile control to pieces.

"Alright then."

His demon face coming to the fore again in anticipation, Spike took hold of Riley's wrist. So afraid this would fail, he was shaking as he slid his fangs into the palm of Riley's hand. And now he let his emotions loose – all his hopes and fears. He tried to make it like it was before: massaging Riley's hand to increase the flow of blood; timing the draws he was taking to match Riley's heartbeat; pinning him with an incandescent gaze; trying to bring him back.

He felt a jolt run through Riley; saw a flicker in his eyes; heard a gasp.

And there it was.

Riley's eyes widened in epiphany, as the memories – all those moments he'd feared were lost forever – began to awaken and show forth their petals to the light: a field of scarlet poppies, first one, then another, then all the others blossoming at once.

Spike could feel them; Riley's blood was singing with them.

Intoxicated, Spike dropped to his knees, clinging; Riley was stroking his hair.

Then Riley murmured, "Spike …"

_Oh. He knows my name._

"Spike, I'm so sorry …"

Riley's hardness was against his cheek, and Spike rubbed against it with a whine of relief, like a dog whose master has returned after a long year away.

This man had tamed him; he felt no shame for it.

Then Riley was pulling him to his feet and kissing him with everything he had, and now Spike's blood was singing too. He was known, and – being known – he was wanted. For a long while Spike was lost in the kiss.

At last Riley drew back to say, "I tried so hard, but they made me forget …" and Spike stroked his brow, saying softly, "I know you did, mate. I know …"

Spike sniffed and turned away for a moment, hiding his elation, unable to express it – it was too much.

Riley put a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Can we –?"

Relieved to be given a direction, Spike pulled his shoulders back and tried to focus. "Not here," he said. "Not gonna make that mistake again. But I know somewhere your lot won't look. Old hang-out, a bit musty but quite comfy."

He swooped to pick up the lube, and took Riley's hand in his. "Come on."

In a daze of remembrance, Riley followed unquestioningly.

Today was Thanksgiving.


	2. Crawford Street Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike and Riley get re-acquainted.

**Thanksgiving Day**

Spike led Riley through a pair of iron gates, along a path overhung by low branches and creepers, and up to the door of an old mansion. There, Spike hesitated for a second before dragging him inside, and as they crossed the threshold, Riley sensed a change in Spike, from passionate haste to something more intense. Spike pressed him against the wall, kissing him urgently; everything about Spike was hard and dangerously edged.

Riley made no complaint about the lack of ceremony. He had no need for candy coating, and if – come the dawn – he was bruised and bloodied, that was okay so long as it meant Spike still wanted him.

Whatever happened now, at least it was real.

~~

Spike had brought Riley here, knowing in his heart that his motive – the need to take Riley in Angel's bed – was base; it was unfair to Riley, and it denigrated them both. He justified it to himself that this was a safe haven; but it wasn't.

It wasn't safe at all.

A glint of metal in the corner caught his eye, and as he recognised the shape of the hated wheelchair, a sick pall came over him; a memory of rage and helplessness. Unwanted remembrances engulfed him. The stink of the humiliations he'd suffered at the hands and imagination of Angelus, the bitter redolence of Drusilla's betrayal, and the sharper scent left by his more recent fears: all combined to tear down the walls he'd spent the last few days building so laboriously around his heart, to preserve the little of Riley that was left to him – one precious memory of a love unsullied by bitterness – from the firestorms that raged inside.

No; coming back to Crawford Street hadn't been one of Spike's better plans.

Now – in this place – his defences were stripped away, until all that was left was the terror of that night he'd spent, lying on someone else's grave, waiting to kiss the daylight: alone, and forgotten by everyone who'd ever cared enough to hurt him.

He'd told himself he didn't blame Riley for not knowing him – not seeing him – but telling didn't make it so.

He'd thought he wasn't angry with Riley, but he was.

He was.

It blazed like a supernova, burning him from the inside.

~~

And Riley didn't understand the rules. How could he? It was naïve and it was arrogant, but when he saw the anger blazing in Spike's eyes, he wanted so much to make it right that he took all the blame for it; forgot himself again.

"Spike, if there's anything I can do to make it right with you, anything you want, anything at all …"

~~

Spike threw Riley across the hallway, thundering, _"I warned you not to say such things!"_

He shifted in and out of game-face as he fought to hold on to some shreds of self-control, but the demon came roaring to the surface, and he slammed into Riley, crushing him against the wall. _ "What did I tell you?"_

Riley shook his head, struck dumb.

"'Don't throw the door wide open!'" Spike's face was inches from Riley's and white hot with fury. "You think I say these things for _nothing?_ For my _amusement?_ Why won't you _**heed**_ me?"

Riley stammered, "But … I only wanted …" but he was choked to silence by a lump in his throat.

Spike saw tears starting to well in Riley's eyes; right then he hated himself more than he hated anything in the world. He backed off, shaking his head, turning away, not wanting Riley to see that he was almost unhinged.

For a moment, neither of them dared to speak.

~~

When Spike turned back to face him, Riley saw that he'd regained a kind of control. His eyes were blue again, but more terrifying in their glacial coldness than the golden feline eyes had ever been.

Spike took a long, slow breath, then asked quietly, "Anything I want is it?"

A chill of fear ran through Riley, but he nodded. Feeling like he was about to step out of a plane without a 'chute, he heard himself say, "I trust you Spike."

An order came; it seemed to come from some cold place a million miles away.

"Strip."

Hardly able to breathe – feeling like all blood had left his brain – Riley did as he was bid.

~~

Tilting his head back, Spike watched as Riley undressed with nervous haste. Soon, Riley stood utterly exposed before him. The man looked back at him without defiance: anxious; waiting for his next instruction; wanting to do right.

Spike ran his gaze over Riley's naked flesh: the swelling planes of his chest; the smooth long muscles of his flanks; the abdominal flutter that told of his shallow irregular breaths. Riley's hips jerked as Spike coolly appraised his erection. Spike felt a curl of satisfaction. Yes, he should be afraid, after what he'd done.

Riley said again, this time in a hoarse whisper, "I trust you, Spike".

"You trust me," Spike said, without inflection.

"I trust you."

Iowa Boy must be hoping that if he said it often enough, it would make it come true.

"Then face the wall, Soldier Boy." Spike bit and licked at his lower lip. "And spread your legs."

Riley's breaths were little more than raw, terrified shudders. He swallowed and turned to face the wall; pressed his forearms against the stone; bowed his head onto them, submission drawn in every line in his body.

Though the beast within him howled in triumph, Spike was burning up with shame as he ripped open his own jeans, kicked Riley's legs further apart and stepped in between them. He reached around, handling him roughly.

Riley gave a shocked gasp, almost of protest, and the chip sizzled a warning, but didn't fire. That was good. So long as Riley wasn't resisting, Spike could do as he pleased.

The beast strained at its chain.

Spike dragged his middle finger across Riley's lips, then he shoved it into Riley's mouth, working it around crudely. When he took it away, he drove it without warning straight up Riley's arse, making him cry out and almost lifting him off the ground.

One-handed, he flipped the top off the lube, skimming the smallest amount, and threw the tube on the floor where Riley could see it. He pulled the finger out and rubbed it coarsely along Riley's crack, over the entrance and back, Riley's moans providing the soundtrack as Spike gave his own cock a cursory once-over with the slick.

Then Spike set the controls for the heart of the sun; driving in; letting everything rip through them; burning into the fiery depths of Riley's being; cursing and thrusting and twisting and writhing and grating out through gritted teeth,_ "You … will never … forget me … again! Say it … Finn! Say it!"_

"Spike, I promise …" Riley gasped, as the furious onslaught nearly drove him to his knees. "I won't … I won't forget … I won't, ever …"

Spike thought his heart might splinter – fly to pieces.

~~

And Riley he took it; he wanted it; wanted to show Spike he was all his; give him everything: his body; his submission; the tattered shreds of his pride; his love; all of it – however much it had to hurt to give it.

And it hurt.

The one connection burned, and Spike wasn't touching him in the other place where it mattered, where he needed it – wanted it so badly. Aching too much for it, Riley reached down with one hand, but Spike grabbed that hand and slammed it back on the wall, grunting, "Permission … denied."

That brutal act loosed Spike's demon; he sank his fangs into Riley's shoulder, and came, roaring and snarling. Then Riley came, with a fearful cry, splattering the wall in front of him; not knowing if he were allowed to come, nor if he would ever be able to stop.

~~

The blood hit Spike's senses, hot and sweet: not bitter as it ought to be when taken in such frenzy. It shocked Spike stone cold sane again. Now – even now – Riley didn't hate him; wasn't angry; didn't even resent him. The man he was abusing was feeling love; sadness; a little fear.

And compassion.

Compassion for Spike who was using him like a bitch; compassion he didn't merit.

Still coming, Spike pulled out with a groan, cursing, sobbing, "Fuck you, Riley, you forgot me –" gripping his shoulders and weakly shaking and slapping him: "– you forgot me, you sod, you bloody sod …"

They collapsed to the floor, Riley gathering him in his arms, and holding him tight and saying, "Shhh. It's okay Spike, it's alright now … I found you, I found you again, didn't I? I never stopped wanting you, and I never will. Even when I didn't remember you, I felt so empty …"

And Spike blurted, "I missed you so much," and pressed his forehead against Riley's chest, and Riley held him, and rocked him.

After a moment, Spike felt Riley shift slightly; he was reaching over to snag his fatigues, then he was searching the pockets.

Then he got out his knife.

Spike swallowed deeply. Maybe Riley had finally decided to put him down this time. He'd gone too far; he knew it. But Riley could kill him, for all he cared, because it was enough that he'd remembered; would always remember. He'd promised to remember.

Touching Riley's arm, Spike said, "You still have the stake …"

But Riley made three shallow cuts in his own bicep – clinical strokes – saying vehemently, "I won't let this ever happen again."

The cuts formed the shape of a spike.

~~

He offered his arm, and as Spike took the blood welling up – not using his fangs this time, just rasping at the edges of the wound with his tongue, so as to preserve the mark – he watched, burning the image into his memory.

"I will never forget you again," Riley said fervently. "Never, I swear it."

He stroked Spike's head: bent over the wounds as if in prayer; massaged the tense cords of his neck; ran a finger along his jaw – still tense; caressed his cheekbones – agonisingly stark. Dreamily, he said, "I won't ever forget you. You're my unicorn."

Spike didn't ask what he meant; just sighed deeply, as though it made his heart glad.

Riley traced the scar on Spike's left eyebrow. One day he'd have to find out where Spike got that. But not now: not today. For now, he would sit here, murmuring words of love and words of comfort; letting his vampire cry, and accepting his apologies unchallenged.

At last, exhausted – shriven – Spike laid his head on Riley's arm, and slept.

Sore as he was from the cuts and from the roughness of Spike's entry into him, and stiff from the cold stone floor, Riley was floating. He looked down on Spike, sleeping in his arms, and hardly dared to break the moment with a breath. Spike was here because of him; broken and made whole again because of him. He didn't want to move; didn't want Spike to wake; didn't care if day never broke again.

After a while – Riley didn't know how long – Spike twitched in his sleep; moaned, "No, please … don't go …"

Riley stroked him awake, whispering, "I'm still here. Not goin' anywhere."

Spike rewarded him with a look of pure wonder. "Oh yes you are," Spike said, as he grasped the hand that was gentling him. He uncurled with the stiff grace of a Siamese cat, then he was helping Riley to rise; walking backwards as he led him to the bedroom; never taking his eyes off him.

This time it was slow: shallow breaths; gentle hands; and Spike was meek and compliant, allowing Riley take him how he would. Now it was Riley's efforts that were fuelled by anger, but only at himself, for not being stronger; for having let Professor Walsh violate his mind. Never out of control, he gave Spike everything he had, until Spike was ridged and howling and begging for more, and then some.

~~

At last, they slept.

Spike moaned softly, but this time Riley didn't hear to wake him from the bad dream.

As Spike turned and twitched in his sleep, he heard Angelus' still faintly Irish brogue taunting him.

"You're not fit to clean my boots, but there's no one else to do it."

So William cleaned Angelus' boots, clearing straw and horse manure out of the treads, while Angelus fucked Drusilla in the bed in the next room, with the door open.

Jealous tears of humiliation coursed down William's face. He knew that so long as those boots weren't clean, Angelus would go on desecrating his Dark Princess, making her scream his name.

Once, Angelus looked up from his labours, and shouted to William, "You're no use to me. You're no use to Drusilla. You're no use to anyone."

William tried to get the mud off Angelus' boots, he really tried: scraping, brushing, polishing – even using his tongue in his desperation to get them clean; to silence the awful sound of Drusilla's ecstasy and Angelus' contempt.

But the mud stuck.

It still stuck.

Then he was back in the villa near Prague: still on his knees, but the boots were gone, and in their stead was Drusilla's damaged body. He was half out of his mind, sending his minions to bring peasants for her to feed on; never leaving her side; hearing all the while Angelus' voice in his head, telling him, "I always said you couldn't take care of her properly."

Drusilla's eyes flickered open, and she called out, "Daddy!"

It tore Spike's heart out of his chest.

The dream shifted again, but he was still on his knees. This time the body he was bending over was that of the Slayer; Buffy Summers' body. He'd ripped out her throat, and there was blood running down his chin, and staining his clothes.

Angel stood looking down at him, shaking his head. "You killed Riley's date," he said. "And Joyce will be so disappointed in you."

Spike looked up in dismay.

"Do you think Riley wants to see you like this?" Angel went on. "Think someone like him would ever stay with someone like you?"

Spike woke in a cold sweat. The vision lying beside him – Riley, an arm flung carelessly above his head, the sheet slipping down to reveal his broad chest – made him catch his breath; reassured him.

Just a dream: that was all it had been.

Didn't mean anything.

Then his cruelty of the night before invaded his consciousness. He felt sick.

Riley's forgiveness didn't make it better; it just meant he was the better man. But whatever Riley had said last night, in the heat of the moment, Spike wasn't going to delude himself that it would last.

He'd seen Riley with the Slayer.

After how he'd behaved last night, he'd be a fool to think Riley would stay with him.

But he knew he couldn't bear to watch him leave.

Carefully, so as not to wake the sleeping Apollo, Spike levered himself up and slid his legs over the edge of the bed. He reached for his jeans and pulled them on, then picked up a boot, and sat staring at it.

Whether the thing he was planning to do was brave or cowardly, he hardly knew.

He looked across at Riley again, peaceful in sleep. But that was him, wasn't it? Calm like the ocean on a summer day, and generous as the sky. He'd really come through last night. But how many more times? How many of Spike's tantrums would it take to turn Riley against him? Only reason Dru had put up with him for so long was that she'd lost even more of her marbles than he had. If this went any further; if he let himself believe in it and his hopes were dashed again; if he ruined it for himself – it would destroy him.

And he'd be bound to fuck things up sooner or later.

He didn't want to.

And what about the Slayer? He'd seen Riley with Buffy. That could have been a side-effect of the brainwashing, but if it wasn't … He didn't want Riley to have to choose between himself and Buffy, because there was only one way that could go.

If this thing with Riley was going to end, it had better end now.

His mind half made-up, he managed to put one boot on and tie the laces, but when he picked up the other, he dropped it, because his hands were shaking with nerves and indecision and the morning chill.

And maybe because he hoped Riley would wake, and stop him leaving.

Riley stirred and felt for him, and when his hand found the bed beside him empty, he opened his eyes.

"Spike? What's goin' on?" He flicked some hair off his face with a careless gesture that all but undid Spike's weakening resolve. "Why are you getting dressed? We can't leave now, it's almost daylight."

He was right. The room was less dark than it had been, despite the heavy drapes; it must be getting light outside.

Spike pursed his lips. "I can get away from here okay. Plenty of sewers and shady boulevards." He heaved a somewhat theatrical sigh. "Time I made tracks. Then you can be getting back to base, or your dorm, or your super-honey or whatever."

~~

"What? _**Why?**_" Riley frowned. "What's a super-honey?"

He was fully awake now: like he'd been slapped in the face. "Hey wait a minute. I'm not going _back_ anywhere. I'm staying with you now." He shot Spike a look of concern. "Aren't I?"

Everything had been fine when they'd gone to sleep; more than fine. At least, he'd thought it was. Now it was all thrown up in the air again, and he had no idea how it had happened. Confused, and more than a little scared, he hazarded, "We had this fight already, Spike, what's wrong? Did I do something wrong?"

He didn't want to have to plead again, but if that was what it took …

"Wasn't it – wasn't I –?" He took a lungful of air; braced himself. "Was it the sex? Was it no good? Because … I know I could do better – learn stuff. I can read up. Or you could write me a list, I'm new to this –"

"No worries, mate, you were fantastic," Spike said.

Somehow it sounded like an insult.

Spike pulled the other boot on and laced it, concentrating on the task as though it was absolutely vital that the job be done correctly. "Far too fantastic for a piece of garbage like me to have any illusions about what happens next, so don't wave any hopes for the future in front of my face, okay?"

Refusing to look at Riley, he added, "We both know where you belong. Not like it's a secret."

"I belong with you," Riley said. As far as he was concerned, that was set in stone.

Spike shook his head. A picture of dejection, he said, "You belong with Buffy."

**_"Buffy!"_** Was that all that was bothering Spike? "You saw me with Buffy? Is that what this is about?"

Spike glanced nervously at Riley. "Maybe," he conceded.

"Because that was a mistake, you have to know that. The Professor put that in my head. I don't want Buffy. Never did." He held Spike by the shoulders looking earnestly into his eyes. "It's you I want."

Spike snorted and made a show of trying to shrug him off. "You don't have to lie to me Riley. Everyone wants Buffy. Aliens in galaxies far, far away want Buffy."

He patted his pockets in a vain search for cigarettes.

"Hell, even Mr bloody Spock probably wants Buffy. How could anyone in their right mind possibly believe you'd choose me, over Buffy?" He shot a sideways glance at Riley. "You have seen her, right? She's bloody made for you, mate."

"What? Why would you say that?" Riley said, exasperated. "I had one date with her, if you can even call it a date. We ate fast food and then went home."

He caught a pained flash of jealousy in Spike's look, and quickly added, "Went home separately. She's just a college girl, and not a very interesting one at that. Her small talk's even less enthralling than mine, which is goin' some. She's not anything special."

Spike gave an ironic snort. "Nothing special?"

"She's nothing to me, Spike. She's … she's popcorn."

Spike laughed crazily. "Well, this popcorn's a lot more dangerous than the microwave variety." He shook his head as though Riley were a misguided eight-year-old. "She's in the same line of work as you Riley. Freelance, but still a demon-hunter, and a bloody good one too."

~~

Spike didn't even know why he was telling Riley all this. Just felt he had to. Get this over with now; better than having Riley find out later and then regret the choice he made. "You'd be perfect for each other." He looked at his chipped nails, his fingers stained with nicotine and blood, and other stuff. Why were his hands never clean?

"Yours truly, however, is a long way from perfection."

He made as if to leave, brushing his hands on his jeans and standing up, ready to move out; reaching to snag his tee shirt from the floor. "Don't worry. I won't go making things awkward for you by letting your blokes catch me again or making a scene or anything. I'll leave town. Get right out of your way."

"Come on Spike, don't go all 'Casablanca' on me," Riley pleaded. "I'm not buying it. What's really bothering you?"

Spike scratched the nape of his neck, nerves jangling, because here was the gist of it.

"You don't want me Riley. You saw me last night. What I was like. That's me. The real me." He looked Riley in the eye to see whether he'd be prepared to accept the half-truth as the whole. "I'm not exactly the most pleasant person to be around."

"You were upset. You had a right to be."

"Yeah, sure I was upset." Spike laughed bitterly. "I'm always upset – always got some excuse for messin' things up. 'I was bored', or 'I was hungry', or 'I just felt in the mood for a fight'. You said it yourself, I'm a mass-murderer. Nothing's gonna change that fact."

He sat down again and put his face in his hands. He'd gone further down this road than he'd intended. He'd been playing at it: testing himself or maybe testing Riley; hadn't really meant for either of them to fail. But now the worms were out of the can, he felt like he was reading his own school report aloud, and every subject had 'Could do better' written next to it; and yet he couldn't stop reading.

He felt Riley's hand on his shoulder.

"But you won't kill again – you can't. The chip –"

"There's other ways to hurt people than doin' it myself," Spike said, wishing he could just, for once, shut the fuck up. "And what about when I find someone that can get the chip out?"

Spike looked up at Riley with an expression of stony defiance.

~~

Riley was quiet for a moment. But he'd already had that discussion in his head; already made his mind up to accept everything Spike was; anything he felt he had to do. "You should get it out. Everyone should be able to defend themselves."

Spike's flinted expression softened a little in surprise at the answer, and that gave Riley a bit of hope: the will to press on over the burning eggshells. "Where's all this coming from Spike? What's it all about?"

He was a little afraid of the answer to his next question, but he still had to ask. "Is this your way of telling me you don't want me? Because if you don't, please, just say it." He didn't want to lie, but he made the effort, for Spike's sake. "I can take it … I guess."

"It's not that at all." Spike bit his lip and looked away. "It's just … I'm trash, Riley. I proved that last night. I'm not worthy of you, and I know it now." He put a hand over his eyes. "I'm just scared what's gonna happen when you realise it too."

Riley knelt at Spike's feet on the tiles, took Spike's hands in his and looked up into his face, though Spike tried to pull away. "I love you. When are you gonna get that? Doesn't matter how cranky you are in the mornings, I'm not gonna leave you."

No debate needed: it was just like solving a simple maths problem. And that was what this was about, wasn't it? It was some kind of test; it had to be. And he was good at passing tests.

Spike rubbed his eyes. "Have to admit, I couldn't bear it that you'd forgotten; didn't even know me. But if you don't want to lumber yourself with me, tell me now – I promise not to do anything terminal this time." He sighed, resting his elbows on his knees, looking at the floor. "At least you've remembered. I'd always have that. It's enough."

"Is it? Is it really enough for you Spike?" Riley said, shaking his head at the melodrama. "Don't worry – I know you're just messin' with me."

He set to work unlacing Spike's boots, and when he'd removed them, pressed Spike back down onto the bed. Spike submitted without a word. Looking down at him with a serious expression, Riley went on, "And in case you need me to say it – it's not enough for me. I want you – I want _us_ – more than I've ever wanted anything in my life."

Spike's eyes widened and his lips parted. He almost cracked a smile, but then he rolled onto his side and faced the wall, covering his face and insisting, "I'd sooner you killed me than waste yourself on me."

Riley almost laughed. "Well, that's just –"

He couldn't think of the right word for it. He didn't want to call Spike 'stupid', but that's what came to mind.

"I'm beneath you." Spike's voice was muffled, his arm still hiding his face.

"'Beneath me'!" Riley repeated, shaking his head. That was plain ridiculous. Even Spike couldn't stifle a self-deprecating snort of laughter. But when Riley managed to gently pull and coax Spike to face him again, he'd never seen him looking so naked – so defenceless. He could see in the depths of those troubled eyes that Spike was laughing, not because he knew it was pure foolishness, but because somewhere in that mixed-up head of his, Spike believed it to be true.

And Riley was gonna disabuse Spike of that misguided notion if it was the last thing he did. "You are _**not**_ beneath me," he said firmly.

He leaned over Spike, resting on one hand, and using the other to stroke and caress his ribs, his flanks, his cheekbones. When Spike started to relax, Riley began dropping kisses like pink petals on the bone-white skin, punctuating each kiss with a promise, or a plan, or word of praise, and he didn't let up – didn't stop kissing and petting and declaring his love over and over – until Spike's eyes were wide and blue and blasted, and he came, moaning, just from Riley's tenderness towards him.

Then Riley undid Spike's jeans and pulled them off. Ignoring Spike's continuing mild whimpers and protestations of unworthiness, he spread Spike's thighs, slicked himself with Spike's come, and eased inside, thrusting, but slowly, his eyes closing, murmuring, "Now you're beneath me – but only … in a good way …"

He ran a hand down the centre of Spike's chest.

"You're not trash. You're not unworthy. You're not beneath me, or anyone. I don't know why you said those things. Don't know who could have told you such things, but they're not true. If I ever meet the person who made you think that way I'll –"

Then the door burst in.


	3. An Uninvited Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be careful what you wish for.

Angel wasn't happy. He didn't want to be here. It had been so hard leaving Buffy all those long months ago; coming back was filling him with unease. But if the Powers thought he should be here, then who was he to argue with them?

Somehow that sounded like a poor excuse for breaking his pact with Buffy.

Adding to his discomfort, he realised that he'd gotten to Sunnydale way too early in the day to disturb the Watcher. He should hole up for a while; give Giles time to drink a gallon of tea, or eat a Full English Breakfast: whatever.

So he headed for Crawford Street.

As Angel approached his old home, he felt his skin start to tingle, and when he got through the door, he knew why. His senses hummed with the odours of blood and sex. Some of the spill was from one of his own, and it didn't take long to work out which one.

Spike.

Spike was here.

That must be the threat the Powers had sent him here to deal with.

Spike was gunning for Buffy.

Again.

Angel was in game-face before he was halfway down the hall. Spike was here, and with a human victim – a male. There must have been a struggle, and the human – predictably – was the worse off.

Angel stopped in his tracks.

Spike had raped a man.

On his territory.

And the victim was still alive.

Mired in confused thoughts and awash with emotions he didn't want to identify, Angel pounded through the mansion, following the scent to where it was strongest.

When he found the bedroom door closed, Angel stopped to listen, and his sense of urgency gave way to puzzlement. What was going on didn't sound like any kind of deadly assault. It sounded – schmoopy. In his experience, schmoopy and Spike – quite apart from sounding like characters in a canine buddy movie – were, as Buffy might have said, 'un-mixy things.' Obviously the man making … love – Angel's mind shied away from the idea – to Spike must be unaware of the very real danger he was in.

He didn't know why he found the scene playing out behind the door so fascinating and yet so disturbing. Maybe it was because he'd never imagined Spike doing it with anyone but Drusilla … or himself.

The guy with Spike was clearly a fool, because he was telling Spike he wasn't a bad person. That was just plain wrong. Wasn't it against the Constitution to come out with stuff like that?

And Spike sounded so … un-Spike-like, that Angel was momentarily thrown. He'd never heard Bleach Boy sound so open; so defenceless. Even when he'd been in the wheelchair, literally helpless, the attitude still had been there; annoying; insolent; sarcastic; Spike.

But this Spike was like someone he'd never met.

It must be an act; had to be. Spike couldn't beat Buffy on is own, so he was persuading some accomplice to come in on the job – that was it. And when Angel heard the poor sucker feed Spike the line he must have been waiting for: "I don't know who would have told you such things. But they're not true. If I ever meet the person who made you think that way" – Angel knew that Spike was about to blame it all on Buffy.

He kicked in the door.

"I told him those things, because they are true. I'll be interested to see what you're going to do about it."

~~

Spike felt a cold wash of panic when he saw his sire at the door. He'd be more careful what he wished for in future.

"Get out," he told Riley. "Fast."

With a groan of frustration, Riley disengaged, and pulled the sheet up to cover them both.

Iowa Boy could be very literal sometimes.

"Not just out of … me, out of here, Riley. This isn't your fight."

"There's a fight?" Riley said. "Did I miss something?" His expression of surprise quickly turned to indignation. "I'm not going anywhere. Do you know this ill-mannered lunk-head?"

"I'm not ill-mannered!" Angel said. He frowned. "Okay, that was irrelevant, but Spike is right. I don't believe I just said that, but it's true. You should get out. You're just a dupe, it's not your fight. I'll deal with him."

~~

"You'll _**deal**_ with him?" Riley bristled. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

He felt at a considerable disadvantage, especially since he could see by the light coming in through the open door that the stranger was a vampire, in full game face. He scanned the room for his stake, or at the very least his clothes, but of course everything was still in the hallway. He wasn't keen to try naked wrestling with this vamp. "And I am _not_ a dupe!"

"Look," the intruder said, sounding more irritated than threatening. "Whoever you are – Cliff Notes version. Vampires are real, Spike's a vampire. He's highly dangerous. He's lured you here to kill you, or to get your help to kill someone he can't take on his own. So, I repeat – and I'm not going to say it again – get out, and let me deal with him."

Riley looked pointedly at the stranger, then at Spike, then back at the stranger again. "Yes, well, whoever _you_ are – I know who and what Spike is, and you're the only one who's fangy and bumpy right now, so I think I'll take my chances with the devil I know, thanks all the same."

Spike had regained some of his composure. "Aw, you say the sweetest things," he said, smirking at the intruder. "Doesn't he say the sweetest things, Angel?"

Disconcerted, Riley glanced at Spike, who seemed to be well-acquainted with the vampire in the doorway. "Who is this jerk?"

"Fine. Whatever!" the newcomer interrupted. "Maybe the gene pool's better off without you."

He really _was_ extremely rude.

"But Spike's here to kill Buffy and I'm here to make sure _that_ doesn't happen."

Why was everyone so obsessed with Buffy?

"No, he's not –" Riley began; but Spike drowned him out, with ironic laughter.

"Is _that_ what you're doing here? Come to save your one true love from the Big Bad, have you?" Spike shook his head in disbelief. "Well, newsflash, Peaches. Not everything is about you and little Slutty. It may have escaped your attention, but there's more than one pair of star-crossed lovers in this world."

"Don't call her Sl–"

"You must be out of the loop or you'd have heard by now. It's a bit embarrassing but if it gets you off my case, it's worth it." As smug as if he'd booked himself into Maggie Walsh's private clinic deliberately, Spike announced, "I've got a fancy new government chip in my head. Been neutered. I can't attack humans any more."

The stranger turned to Riley. "He's lying," he said, without a second thought.

That threw paraffin on the fire. Riley got out of bed and faced off with him. He didn't give a crap that his dick didn't know what the hell was going on; he might be naked but he was also blazing mad. "He's not lying," he said, looking the stranger in the eye. "How dare you make that assumption?"

"Angel always assumes the worst about me," Spike said. "Day he doesn't, probably means there's an Apocalypse on the way."

Still flushed and furious, Riley went on, "And were you born this big of a moron, or did your parents drop you on your head? Don't you know it's not very polite to bust in on people when they're making out?" He poked Angel in the chest for emphasis.

Angel looked down at Riley's finger in surprise, then back up at Riley. As far as Riley could tell, Angel's extremely unattractive vampire features were expressing amused contempt.

"Making out? What are you, teenagers? And you – human guy – whoever you are. You look … fairly normal." Angel looked Riley up and down, then looked away, embarrassed. "What are you doing with this idiot?"

Through the thunder of blood in his ears, Riley heard Spike saying, "Well, Angel, when two grown-up people love each other very much –" and then his fist connected with Angel's nose.

_"Yes!"_

That was Spike.

It wasn't loud but it sounded very happy, and Spike was looking at him with his head tilted to one side, as if Riley had just given him the best Christmas present ever. Riley grinned foolishly.

"That hurt," Angel said, rubbing his nose, though he looked more surprised than injured. "And what do you mean, 'when two grown-up people love each other'? Are you telling me –" He looked blankly from one to the other, apparently baffled, then said, "You're serious aren't you? You're a … couple?"

Riley looked to Spike for confirmation, and received an encouraging smile in return. "Yes, if it's any of your business, Mister. We're together."

Phasing seamlessly from 'Dark Avenger' to 'Outraged Homeowner', Angel demanded, "Then perhaps you could explain to me, if you _**have**_ to be together, why does it have to be in _my_ house, in _my_ bed?"

"I reckon I'm entitled," Spike flashed back. "Being as how your little girlfriend burned down my last place of residence. Lover's tiff wasn't it?"

A shadow passed over Angel's face.

"Anyway, what's it to you if I've found someone new? Someone _better_." Spike treated Angel to a look of disgust.

Riley's eyes widened with realisation. "This prick is your ex-?"

Spike looked away from both of them, and swore under his breath. "It wasn't exactly hearts and flowers," he said grimly.

"But you … You two have …?" Riley could feel a vein throbbing in his temple.

"Wasn't like I had a choice," Spike said, almost to himself.

"He forced himself on you?" Riley felt his blood starting to evaporate. Softly he murmured, "He raped you …"

Angel interrupted, "Now wait just one minute –"

"Yeah, you could call it that," Spike broke in. He looked sideways at Angel. "No need to make a big deal out of it though."

Riley looked at him in blank incomprehension. "What? How can you –"

But Spike shook his head. "Long time ago, mate. Water under the bridge."

Riley had thought he couldn't get any more furious than he was, but the weary acceptance in Spike's voice made him want to kill whoever had caused it, in ways he'd never thought he could imagine. Before he knew what he was doing, Riley found himself gripping Angel by the throat.

Angel knocked him back across the room, and he landed with a surprised grunt on the floor beside the bed, where Spike was at his side in a second.

"Are you okay?" Spike said.

He was, and he'd have gotten back up and gone for Angel again if Spike hadn't stopped him from getting back on his feet.

The energy crackling in the room could have powered a small community.

~~

Angel stared at them, both naked on the floor in the half light. This was _Spike:_ with a human … lover.

They'd defiled the bed he and Buffy had shared in enforced and painful chastity.

He'd had to give up the love of his life.

But Spike, who didn't even have a soul, seemed to have achieved something that Angel – in the darkness of his heart – knew he never could: not with a hundred Gems of Amara; not if they invented vamp strength sunscreen; not even if he became a real boy again.

Spike had got a taste of the sunlight.

Looking Angel in the eye, Spike said softly, "Jealous?" His tone could have dried up the Pacific.

Could Spike be right? No: it wasn't jealousy. It was envy. "Over you, Spike?" he said with a sneer. "Why would I be jealous over you? You're scum."

"Yeah, so you said. I heard you the first two hundred times."

~~

Riley struggled harder to free himself, but Spike seemed determined to hold onto him, and he didn't want to fight Spike, but he had to do something. "Hey, don't speak to him like that," he said. "What gives you the right?"

"I'm the one who made him what he is today."

"Yeah, what a job of work you did there," Spike said. "Always were a hard worker, weren't you, _Liam?_"

Riley saw Angel flinch. Spike seemed to be able to knock him off balance, whereas he, Riley, was still trying to get a grip on the situation. "What does he mean, he made you what you are?" Riley said. "Why are you letting him –"

"Riley, he's family," Spike said: as if that were supposed to make things any clearer.

Riley saw red. Spike had been raped, and by his … what? Older brother? Uncle? No wonder he was screwed up. It was too much to take in, but he had to pay attention because Spike was trying to explain.

"– and vampires are no exception to the rule that family always makes you crazy. Drusilla turned me into a vampire, but it had just as well have been this …" Spike made a theatrically dismissive gesture towards Angel. "So, to get the formal introduction over, Riley Finn –" Spike's voice softened very briefly when he spoke Riley's name. "Meet the Master Vampire of the Order of Aurelius, head of the family that defined the word dysfunction – my grandsire, Angelus."

Angel looked decidedly peeved. "That's ancient history," he protested, finally dropping out of game-face. "I have a soul now. And my name's not 'Angelus', or 'Liam'. It's 'Angel' now."

Spike snorted. "Never mind a couple of lifetimes' worth of mayhem and torture. You're 'Angel' now, all noble and kind, 'helpin' the helpless'. Wait a minute … what's that above your head?"

Angel swatted at the air above him.

"Oh, it's a halo!" Spike said, pistolling a finger at him. "And it makes such a palpable difference."

"You know I haven't forgotten –"

"Your sins, yeah. I know all about them," Spike said, with a grimace. "Experienced some of them first hand, as I'm sure you remember. But I guess when it comes to atoning for stuff, I'm probably last on your list."

"I don't have to atone for you," Angel said. "I didn't turn you."

"No. You didn't turn me. Just used me as your whipping-boy, is all."

Riley kept quiet, listening intently. Angel seemed to have forgotten he was there.

"You were stubborn and obnoxious. You needed teaching." Angel took a few paces, gesticulating as though it were a formal debate. "Not that you'd ever heed anything I said."

Riley noted Angel's choice of words with a cold anger. He flashed back to the night before; to Spike's words, "Why won't you _heed_ me?" Angel sure liked to leave his mark.

"Well, lucky for me, I was too 'stubborn and obnoxious' to learn everything you wanted to teach me."

"What?" Angel said, spreading his hands. "What did I ever do to you that was so bad?"

"Whatever you bloody well wanted," Spike said bluntly.

"I didn't do anything to you that you didn't want," Angel said; but there was a hint of doubt creeping into his voice.

"Bollocks," Spike said. "Didn't want any of it."

"Don't lie, just because you don't want your boyfriend to hear chapter and verse on your perversions," Angel blustered.

"_**My**_ perversions? That's rich. I was a bloody virgin before I met you and your twisted clan."

For a fraction of a second, Angel's face registered something like regret. "You never said –"

"Oh, well maybe I should have," Spike shot back, as though seriously considering whether he might have been at fault. "Virgins were always your favourite, as I recall. I'm sure you'd have treated me with more respect if I'd mentioned how unsullied I was."

There it was again: Angel, looking momentarily thrown. "You always seemed to –"

~~

But Spike was on a roll now. Big bully wasn't going to get off lightly, even if it cost him a thrashing. He didn't care any more.

"Want to know something? Living with you was like fagging for the Marquis de bloody Sade. For eighteen miserable sodding years."

"You got off on it, don't try to deny it," Angel replied uncertainly. He looked like a man standing on shifting sands.

"You were all there was after I was turned. What was I supposed to do? I didn't know anything. What was what, how to resist you." Spike swallowed hard and kept going. "Just because I came on command doesn't mean it was what I wanted."

Spike was glad he couldn't see Riley's face at this moment. It can't have been pleasant for the kid to hear this stuff, but now he'd started, he couldn't stop himself blurting it all out. "You trained me to it. Couldn't help myself." Spike's eyes were stinging. "Didn't enjoy it, if that's what you think."

"The amount of noise he made, he had to be enjoying it," Angel said, looking at Riley.

Riley shook his head. "Bullshit," he said.

Spike's heart sank. Riley's anguished cry as he came untouched last night, echoed in his head. He held onto Riley a little tighter.

"Well, if you're going to gang up on me …" Angel said.

"I'd have thought getting a soul might have changed you," Spike said. "But you're the same twisted son-of-a-bitch as ever, only without the whacky sense of fun. You're cursed, and you're determined to pass it on. Can't bear seein' anyone else happy."

Angel looked disturbed. "That's not true."

"Well you've galloped all the way from LA just to rain on my parade. Because for your information, I've no intention of taking Buffy on again. I know when I've met my match."

"I know you, Spike. You'll find some way to –"

"No," Spike cut in. "You _don't_ know me. You never wanted to know me, you just wanted to turn me into an inferior version of you, and just for the record, you failed. You don't know me, Angelus. You never did."

~~

Angel had heard enough. He hadn't come here to be lectured on his – on Angelus' – past evils. The flagellation of his soul was his job, not Spike's.

He paced the room in frustration. He wasn't about to take the two of them on. He'd win, no question, but only at considerable risk of damaging the human, who seemed foolishly doting rather than evil.

"Fine," he said. "Whatever. I don't have time for this. I've got things I have to do. But I'll be back fifteen minutes after sundown." He went to the doorway. "Don't go near Buffy. And don't be here when I get back."

~~

When Angel had gone, Spike tried to avoid Riley's concerned scrutiny. "Sorry you had to hear all that," he said quietly.

"Don't be," Riley said. "I'm glad I was there. God knows what might have happened if you'd been on your own."

Heaving a defeated sigh, Spike said, "Well, God might know, but I doubt he'd be sendin' out a rescue mission."

"He didn't need to. I'll be with you for as long as you want me." Riley gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Probably longer."

"Not possible," Spike said. He got up to search for some smokes among the various items of clothing strewn on the floor.

"He didn't seem to want to take both of us on," Riley said.

"You're human. He's sworn to protect your kind from riff-raff like me," Spike explained acidly, lighting up. "It's just me he likes to beat to a bloody pulp."

"He's strong. I'm not sure I could take him, not on my own," Riley admitted.

"No offence, mate, but you couldn't," Spike said. "I've fought him more times than I can count. Tried to stop him … doing those things to me. At first anyway. But I was weak then. It never did any good, only made things worse, so I gave up. Stopped fighting it. Gave in."

He sniffed hard, brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, and took a long drag from the cigarette. "Guess he thought that meant I wanted it – not that he cared whether I did or no. Maybe by the end, I'd convinced myself I did. It was just easier that way." He shook his head angrily. "I should have kept fighting."

He took a last hit from the cigarette that was nearly burning his fingers already, then flicked it away across the room to smoulder on the stone floor. He didn't want to meet Riley's gaze, but when Riley laid a hand on the nape of his neck he pressed against it. He felt a prickling behind his eyes.

"It must have been …" Riley stood up and began to pace. "I can't even bear to think about it."

"Don't. Like I said, it's in the past. It won't happen again."

"It had better not. I'd find some way to kill him." Riley shook his head, his expression appalled. "That guy's your … grandfather?"

"Technically the term is grandsire. He vamped Drusilla – that old girlfriend I mentioned – and she turned me. He's got over a hundred years on me as a vampire."

~~

Riley turned away. "That's a lot more experience. And you're not as heavily built as he is."

The picture show he was seeing in his head: Spike, pinned and struggling under that … It was almost making him physically sick. But he didn't want Spike to see he was how affected he was – didn't want to upset Spike any more than he already had been, so he tried to be upbeat.

"You're pretty strong now though, even with all you've been through. You might be able to beat him – on a good day, anyway?"

"Well, thanks for the vote of confidence mate. But we both know there's more to winning than just physical strength, or even skill. There must be. Otherwise …" Spike paused, contemplative. "Well, you know what I told you about Buffy, bein' a Slayer?"

"I remember you saying she was a demon hunter. But I thought you might have made that up, to save me from … you, or something. I didn't understand it really …"

~~

Poor bloke was so out of his depth. Good job he could swim …

"Well, what I told you before, about Slayer's Blood? Told you it was a vampire cocktail or some such crap? That was a lie, Riley."

Riley was hurt, and it showed. "I told you I wasn't the enemy. I thought you trusted me."

Surprised, Spike shot a glance at Riley. He hadn't figured on Riley remembering all their exchanges in such detail; thought he was the only sap who did that kind of stuff. He rubbed a hand down the right side of his face. The healed cigarette burns still itched a bit. "Well, things were more complicated from inside the cage."

"Yeah, I get that."

Relieved, Spike said, "It's the only lie outstanding – at least I think it is. I won't lie to you again."

Riley nodded. "Okay. Go on."

"I've tasted Slayer's blood alright, but it's not something you get from the top shelf, even at Willy's. Buffy – bless her bouncy golden locks – is the incumbent Slayer. And the Slayer is the main threat to vampires and demons of all kinds. That little girl is more of a threat to the demon world, even than the Initiative."

Astonished, Riley examined Spike's face intently. "You're kidding, right?"

This was definitely a two-cigarette exposition, so Spike took the time to light up again.

"Buffy Summers is a super-hero – or a super-villain if you're on her hit list."

Riley took a moment to process. "So, if Buffy's the Slayer, and you've drunk Slayer's blood, that means you've drunk Buffy's blood, right?"

Spike snorted. "No, not Buffy's. Never hers. Never likely to either," he said. "She's the best I've ever come up against – probably the best there's ever been. I've fought her twice, and I'm not ashamed to admit, it's pure luck that I've lived to tell the tale."

Riley was listening in fascinated silence, his lips parted.

"Fought alongside her too, once against Angel, and once with him. They used to be an item. Things are pretty complicated between us."

He took a drag and blew out a smoke ring as he watched Riley's brow crease with the effort of getting it all straight in his head.

"There's only one Slayer at any one time, but a new one gets called whenever one is killed." He paused. "Point being – I've killed two Slayers since I was turned. That's how good, or how bad I am – was, anyway. Angel? He's never killed _one_. Always went for the easy victims. Convents full of nuns, poncey young aristocrats and such like. Whereas I wanted the challenge – put myself in the way of any Slayer I could find."

He wasn't bragging, just serious; wanting Riley to have the full picture; genuinely hoping that as another seasoned fighter, Riley might be able to throw some light on the thing that was bothering him.

"So why does Angel beat me, every sodding time? I've never beaten him yet, not in a fair fight, single-handed. You'd think, in all these years, I'd have got lucky, or – I dunno – been desperate enough or mad enough to have won, just once. But I haven't. I can't understand it. I bloody well wish someone could help me figure it out."

But Riley wasn't listening as a warrior. He was wide-eyed as a kid. All he said was, "How am I ever going to be enough for you?"

Spike smiled softly and put out his cigarette. "Don't worry. I can show you how …"

Then there was unfinished business to take care of.

~~

Finally, Riley began trying to pry Spike's hands off of him. "Come on Spike," he said. "We can't stay here. Can't stay in Sunnydale. We don't want to get caught out again."

Spike sighed. "Guess you're right," he said, letting go.

Riley went and collected his clothes from where they had been discarded last night, and began pulling on his jeans. "There's plenty time before sunset," he said. "I need to go back to my place before anyone misses me. Get my car, some supplies, and all my stuff. I'll be back well before Angel."

Spike rolled onto his side and leaned his head on his hand, like what he was about to say was just a casual remark. "If you decide not to come back … you know, after what happened … I'll understand. Can't blame you if that little scene's put a damper on things. I know it's all been a bit much." His throat felt tight. "I won't wait around for you more than one night."

Riley shook his head in disbelief. "You think I'd leave you to face that bastard alone when the sun goes down?"

"You needn't worry, I can lay low when Angel comes back. You didn't know what you were getting yourself into, Riley. It's a big nasty mess. I'm a mess."

Riley's disappointment showed in the slump of his shoulders. "You can't think too highly of me, if you expect me to jump ship because of anything I heard today. Because of anything he said. What he did to you."

Spike said nothing – just picked at a thread in the sheet, waiting.

Riley went back to the bed, and put his hand on Spike's. "It's okay, I can deal. You don't know me very well I guess. But I'm coming back." He paused, his features darkening with fear and doubt. "You do want me to come back, right? You're not still in love with –"

"No! Riley, I am _not_ in love with Angel," Spike assured him. "Never was." He looked at Riley intently, wanting him to understand. "He was my life, for a while. Taught me everything he could, good and bad. Violated me, trained me. Bent me to his will. I'd have walked into the sun if he'd told me to. But I never loved him."

He tried to think of a comparison; remembered the first time he'd seen Riley at Maggie Walsh's heels, and hazarded, "No more than you were in love with that Professor of yours."

"Okay." Riley said. He still looked worried.

"And yes, I want you to come back. Please. More than anything. More than life."

He pulled Riley down for a kiss, and it was sweeter than any that had gone before, because Riley knew him now. Knew everything; knew the worst anyway.

And still wanted to kiss him.

After a while, Riley pulled away and cuffed him lightly on the head. "Don't kiss me like that," he chided. "Like we're never gonna see each other again. I'll be back soon. I shouldn't be gone more than an hour. If I'm not back in two, maybe you should come rescue me."

~~

Spike watched as Riley strode down the hall and into the sunlight; watched until he was out of sight. He knew there was a good chance they'd never see each other again. Angel wasn't going to just let them skip town together. Either he was waiting outside for Riley to leave, or he'd come back later to finish what he started; if he could.

Spike had prepared himself for it so many times in the past two weeks that death was getting to seem almost inevitable. Even a cat only had nine lives.

But that was okay.

Spike felt strange.

What was that feeling?

Serene.

If he fought Angel and if – by some fluke – he won; all well and good.

If he failed; if Riley came back to find that he was dust in the wind; at least he'd never have a chance to mess up this one good thing.

~~

Angel waited for a while in the shadows outside the mansion, but the noises and odours coming from inside were too disturbing. He reminded himself that the reason for his trip down Bad Memory Lane was to make sure Buffy was okay, not to indulge in family in-fighting; not to rake over the past.

That didn't help anyone, least of all him.

He glanced at his watch. It was time to pay his call on Giles.

~~

That wasn't the most pleasant experience either.

The Watcher had shown admirable sang-froid on seeing him at the door, but nothing in Giles' demeanour had let Angel think for one moment that Giles had forgiven him for Angelus' murder of Jenny Calendar; or that he ever would.

And then being in the same house as Buffy; hearing her voice; smelling her perfume; it got him even more wound up. Buffy was in danger, but – disconcertingly – she seemed less focussed on the threat from dead or un-dead Native Americans than she was on giving the entire Scooby Gang food poisoning.

She was really off her game right now.

This apparently unconnected thing with Spike was a pain in the ass he could do without. Okay, so Spike _wasn't_ the threat the Powers had sent him here to deal with. That didn't matter. He was still a danger to the public, and always would be.

That was why, at around midday, Angel found himself back outside the mansion.

He could tell that Riley had gone, but Spike was still inside. That was good. Spike must have sent Riley out on some errand – maybe to get him some cigarettes. They seemed pretty pre-occupied with each other at the moment, but Angel knew that eventually, if this chip even existed, Spike would find some way to get it out, or to hurt his pet human, in spite of it.

And then Spike would come after Buffy again.

Spike was right about one thing: he _had_ tried to turn Spike into a version of himself. He'd done a pretty good job of it too, which was why Spike had to be taken care of, once and for all. Safer all round to dust him before things got uglier. It was his responsibility: something he should have taken care of a long time ago.

He'd taken out Darla when Buffy was threatened.

All things considered, Angel wondered why he hadn't gotten around to Spike sooner.

~~

It wasn't long after Riley left that Spike heard quiet footsteps in the hall. He was dressed now, and Riley's stake was in his pocket. In his heart of hearts, he didn't believe he had a cat's chance in hell of beating Angel. Maybe that was the problem. He'd been beaten so often, he'd given up hope or expectation of winning.

Trying to psyche himself up, by thinking about all the reasons he had for hating Angel and wanting to kill him – wanting revenge – just made him feel tired; tired and weak, and dirty. Whenever Angel was around, it seemed most of his resolve left him. Even the smell of his sire in the building was enough to weaken him – make him forget every move he'd ever learned apart from falling to his knees.

It made him sick to his stomach.

And now Riley had actually gone, and he knew for sure he'd have to face Angel alone, his earlier calm left him. He told himself it was okay; all he really had to do was hold Angel off until Riley returned … if he did. But an hour is a long time when you're fighting to the death, no holds barred.

He didn't know whether Angel would really off him. It was all the other myriad possibilities in between that made him want so badly to get out of Dodge. He was starting to wish he'd decided to hole up in the sewers while Riley was gone, but he couldn't hide forever. This thing between him and his sire had to be settled, for good or ill, or he'd never be free.

If only he could fight Angel the way he fought any other enemy – but there was too much history between them. He showed Angel too much respect; wanted so badly to win, that it made him too afraid of losing to commit.

The fact that Angel was so much bigger and stronger than him? Just didn't seem an adequate excuse for his repeated failure to defeat him.

~~

The sight of Spike's wheelchair in the corner did nothing to improve Angel's temper. It brought back memories of his time in the wilderness: memories he preferred to think of as being nothing to do with him; but they were. Of coupling with Drusilla right under Spike's nose, and visiting all the torments he could devise on Buffy and her friends; of the look of misery on Buffy's face as she'd plunged a sword into him and sent him to hell.

Where he belonged.

Where he was about to send Spike.

When Angel flung the door open, Spike was standing facing him, balanced but clearly nervous; a makeshift stake in his left hand.

"So this is it?" Spike said defiantly. "Come to finish me off?" He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet. "You'll only prove me right – you can't stand to see me happy."

Spike was looking at Angel expectantly, waiting – like an annoying terrier – for him to take the lead. He was really getting under Angel's skin this time around.

"When you're happy it's usually at someone else's expense," Angel said. He took a swing at Spike's head, but Spike dodged back, and it didn't connect.

Spike landed a kick in Angel's midriff; Angel grunted but quickly recovered.

That was just the handshake.

They circled warily, each too well aware of the other's strengths to just go at it.

~~

"Why is it that with or without the soul, you can't stand the sight of me?" Spike demanded, never taking his eyes off Angel. "What is it you really want to beat out of me? It can't be the demon that you hate. We both have one of those."

"It's not the sight I can't stand, it's the constant noise of you mouthing-off. If you spent more energy fighting instead of talking, maybe I wouldn't always beat you."

The way Angel nailed his self-doubt with such shocking speed and accuracy threw Spike off guard, and Angel was on him before the sound waves died; had him up against the wall, holding him by the throat. Spike made himself go limp, then thrust his forearms up between Angel's, breaking the grip. Angry at having got caught out so easily, he slapped both hands against Angel's ears, held on and bit him savagely on the mouth, dropping fangs and cutting his own lip in the process.

~~

Angel pulled free and fell back, snarling, licking his lips and tasting his own blood mingled with Spike's. It did something to him. Something he didn't like. He felt his control starting to slide. His own demon was rising – swamping him – and Spike was still talking; he'd never stop, always talking.

It used to drive Angelus insane.

They circled again, like black vultures, over the carcass of their shared past.

~~

"When you were 'bad', I wasn't bad enough for you. Now you're 'good', I'm not good enough. It hardly seems fair." Spike punctuated each phrase with a kick or a punch; Angel easily deflected them.

"Well, life's not fair. And you still fight like a girl, William."

"Well, you taught me," Spike retorted.

He took a flying leap, meaning to catch Angel in a neck lock, but Angel caught hold of his wrists and spun him off, using Spike's momentum to send him crashing into the opposite wall. Spike tasted blood where he'd bitten his tongue, and dragged a hand across his mouth as he got up from the floor.

"What really gets you is that I don't need lessons in being human – or being with a human. Not from you," Spike said. "However soul-having you get, people don't like you. They don't trust you. They're still scared of you. You just don't connect. What I have is what you want."

~~

That hit home.

Angel felt a clenching in his guts. Through gritted teeth, he said, "I get on with people fine."

Well, there was Cordelia. She was people, right? She counted. Okay, so she carried a big cross in her purse … And there was Doyle …

He took a swing but missed again, as Spike continued to weave out of the way.

"That soul they shoved back into you was already damaged goods. Your Da beat the humanity out of you long before you lost it the first time. Whatever you say, however many people you save, you still don't 'get' them, and you just can't help resenting them for what you've lost."

All Angel wanted to do at that moment was to shut Spike up. "I didn't come here for analysis, Spike. I came here to kill you."

He felt in a pocket for a stake, but came up empty.

That was embarrassing.

~~

As Angel briefly broke his gaze, Spike saw the opening and feinted left. The flicker of movement tricked Angel into launching forward, and Spike caught him with a kick to the stomach that sent him cannoning into the wall with a grunt.

But Spike wasn't fool enough to close with him; he couldn't match Angel pound for pound, and he knew it.

Especially as the Poof seemed to have put on weight.

Have to remember to mention that.

~~

Annoyed with himself for letting Spike get a move in, Angel growled, "And I don't resent humans." Anger making him sloppy, he came in flailing, his speed letting him get away with telegraphed moves, though few of them landed, as Spike continued to sway and dodge out of range, trying to circle behind him.

"Come on Spike. Running away again? I taught you better than that. You're pathetic."

~~

"Oh! Pathetic am I? A testimonial from the Vampire in love with a Slayer – the High Priest of Pathos if ever there was one. Well at least I'm doin' something to your exacting standards."

Spike could tell Angel was getting bored and frustrated with turning on the spot to follow him around, so he carried on circling, keeping Angel constantly trying to close with a target that just kept on eluding him.

"What's the matter Spike – scared to get too close?"

"I should be – the way you've bulked up you might crush me by accident."

Angel glanced down at his stomach and Spike took his feet from under him with a leg sweep. Angel landed heavily, but he was up in a second, and Spike was glad he'd resisted the temptation to close in.

"I guess I should be sorry for you," Spike said thoughtfully. "But I still just hate you."

He snatched up a table lamp from an onyx table and launched it at Angel; it bounced off Angel's shoulder.

"Hey, that's my lamp!" Angel said with an outraged glare.

Then Spike threw the table across the room; it hit Angel in the chest.

"I may be low, but you're further down than me," Spike said. "You're down in the Slough of Despond, waiting for someone to give you a hand out."

"I'm not listening," Angel said as a Bible hit him on the elbow. "Now that's just wrong."

"Even Buffy, the Chosen One, couldn't do it. Who's gonna give you a hand out of that pit of despair you're wallowing in like a great hippo of doom?"

Spike flung a poker and a set of tongs from the fireplace through the air towards Angel.

"Ow! This is childish! Fight properly!"

~~

The game was getting tedious.

As bronze statuette of David hurtled towards his head, Angel flailed wildly and gave Spike the opening he'd been waiting for. Spike closed in, landed a solid blow on his jaw that rocked him back, and followed up with a flurry of punches, uppercuts and forearm smashes, and Angel fell back against the wall with his arms outspread.

~~

Suckered.

~~

Angel easily caught Spike's left forearm as it came in on the reverse, sidestepped and used Spike's momentum, whipping him round in one of the old routines from their well-rehearsed and violent tango. He jerked Spike's arm up his back, and heard the sweet sounds of screaming joints and tearing sinews, as he forced Spike face first into the wall.

~~

It all felt so drearily familiar; almost comfortable.

~~

Feeling Angel pressing against his back, Spike spat out, "Had a feeling you'd want to scratch that hundred-year-old itch."

His insolence got his arm pulled an inch or two higher.

"Shut up," Angel said coldly.

"Don't worry. I know that wood you're sporting's for your precious Fluffy, not me.  
What is it about natural blondes?"

He writhed and struggled against the hold, but there was no room to manoeuvre, so he scraped his boot heel down Angel's shin and stamped in his instep.

Angel brought his knee up hard between Spike's legs and Spike would have doubled over in agony if his face hadn't been pressed against the stone wall. He heard himself whimpering; flailed around with his free hand to try to find some tender body part of Angel's to grip that would make the bastard let go of him.

He failed.

Angel jacked his arm up even higher, and twisted his wrist, forcing him to let go of Riley's stake. It dropped conveniently into Angel's hand.

"Why, thank you, Willy," Angel said, with a smile in his voice.

Spike howled with anguish at the pain in his wrist and the loss of his weapon. He struggled feebly against the hold.

"Fuck you, Angel, you cunt. I fucking hate you, you sodding bog-trotter."

The final insult was what did for him. Angelus' fangs sank like hot knives into the back of his neck and Spike let out a whine so abject it sickened him.

There was a hot trickle running down his back.

Bastard wasn't even bothering to drink; just letting it drain out of him, like even his blood was worthless. He was being shaken like a kitten, and there was nothing he could do, nothing.

There never was.

~~

Spike's blood was so loaded with bile that even the faintest taste of it was making Angel want to gag. Wasn't that one of the things he'd enjoyed in the old days? Didn't he gauge his success at subjugating Spike by the bitter tang of his blood? Seemed he'd lost his liking for it; but it wasn't until Spike went limp in his grasp that he loosed the hold on his neck.

"Why do you fight me William? Why? You don't have to fight to get what you want." He grabbed Spike obscenely between the thighs. "There you go, Willy."

"Fuck off! Fuck off or fucking kill me Angel, I don't care. Just stop fucking touching me."

Spike was almost sobbing.

Suddenly uncertain, Angel let go the death grip on Spike's balls. He hadn't meant to …

They were both still and quiet for a moment, apart from Spike's rasping breaths as he tried to regain some composure.

Sane again for a moment, Angel shook off the demon face. He wasn't sure what to do with Spike now. He had a stake, and he still had Spike immobilised by the lever on his arm. He should finish this, before he …

Before things got any further out of hand.

He'd staked one of his own before.

It should be easy.

~~

Spike felt a point in his back. Angel was easily strong enough to stake him from behind.

"Go on Angel, finish me off."

He felt drained; worthless.

"Unless you're worried about getting that moment of pure happiness you're so scared of. Wouldn't want to ruin the image by cracking a smile …"

~~

It should be easy, but it wasn't. Angel tried to silence the inner voice, accusing him; tried to tell himself this was just another lowlife he had to put down.

But it wasn't.

It was Spike.

Spike: who he'd cuckolded and stripped of his dignity too many times to remember; Spike: who knew him better than he knew himself.

Where else could he look for his reflection?

He stalled to cover his indecision.

"So, what's the plan this time, Spike? Can't kill humans any more, so you're getting simpletons like Rory or whoever he is –"

"Riley!" Spike snapped. "His name's Riley."

"Riley, whatever. Getting simpletons like Riley to do your dirty work for you?"

"He's not a simpleton."

"He must be –"

"To be interested in me. Well fuck you Angel. There's no plan alright? I've given up making plans. Any plan I make gets messed up by you and your little friend Slutty the –"

"It's **_Buffy!_**" Angel roared.

He turned and shoved Spike across the room; Spike landed on his knees by the bed.

"I've told you not to call her that."

He launched himself at Spike, covering him, pressing Spike's smaller frame against the side of the bed on which everyone in this whole sick scenario – Buffy, himself, Drusilla, Spike, Riley – seemed to have left their scent; their mark.

Past and present were melting into each other.

He heard himself demanding, _**"Say her name properly Boy! Show some respect to your betters! It's Buffy. Buffy! Say her name!"**_

He gripped both of Spike's arms, yanked and twisted them against the shoulder joints and pressed his knee and his whole weight into Spike's back, and it wasn't long before Spike was howling, _**"Buffy. Buffy the Sodding Vampire Slayer. Buffy. It's Buffy. Angel, please."**_

But he could barely hear Spike bleating under him for the roaring in his ears. He wanted to lose it; wanted to rip into Spike just to stop the sound of his pain, his begging; sounds that he'd heard so many times from so many different throats; sounds that were accusations he couldn't deny.

Confused, Angel released him.

Spike pulled his arms in tight to his sides, crossing his hands over his chest, rocking forward and hugging himself and gingerly flexing his shoulders. Then he groaned and rolled slightly so he could look up at Angel.

"Why can't I beat you?"

The naked pleading in Spike's face as he begged for enlightenment – before death, or whatever else was going to happen – tore Angel up inside; almost cracked him open.

Then Spike blew it.

"I've killed two slayers Angelus. Why can't I beat you?"

That was something Angel didn't want to think about. Spike had killed two Slayers. Didn't that make him the better vampire? And both were on Angel's conscience. All of the blame and none of the credit fell to him. He kicked Spike between the legs and Spike curled up with a whine.

"You'll never beat me, because you don't want to win." He picked Spike up by the shoulders, letting him hang in his grasp like a broken puppet; then he flung him face down against the bed again. "Shall I tell you what you want?"

~~

Spike had stopped fighting. His heart shrank away; went to hide – somewhere safe, somewhere dark – not wanting to listen as the familiar litany played out. "Go on then, Angelus. Tell me what I want."

"What you always want. You want me to bend you over and fuck you like an animal. Now – what do you want? Tell me, _Willy_, because you know I like to hear you ask for it."

On the faint hope that it might put off the inevitable, Spike said haltingly, "Maybe I can't win because there's nothing you've got that I want as badly … as badly as you want me."

He waited, quiet and subdued, for the wrath of Angelus to rain down on him.

~~

Spike was right. Angel wanted to take him; to let go …

And why the hell shouldn't he? Spike wasn't Buffy; wasn't even human; there was no perfect happiness to be had here. Let his whining conscience cry in vain.

Angel knelt on the floor and ground himself against Spike through the thickness of their clothes, giving him a reminder of what was coming. Then he reached around and started undoing Spike's jeans.

This was where Spike belonged.

Beneath him.

Spike was silent now apart from shallow gasping breaths.

"Don't want to say it? I'll say it for you, as you seem to have forgotten the right words. You want me to bend you over and fuck you like an animal. Because that's what you are, Spike. An animal. You're my dog, what are you?"

Spike swallowed and whispered miserably, "Your dog, Angelus."

"You're getting ideas way above your station, hanging out with that human. He seems like a nice boy. Too good for you."

"Yes, Angelus. I know he's too good for me."

The defeated sound of Spike's voice was more than Angel could stand, so he pressed Spike's face into the mattress, holding him down by the neck.

~~

Spike went still; very still.

A little more pressure would break his neck.

He was clinging to a hope that Riley would get back before it started in earnest; praying that he wouldn't come when it was too late, and Angel had broken him again; broken him completely.

Perhaps it was already too late.

As he felt Angel struggling with his flies, Spike moaned a last desperate entreaty: "Angel … Liam, please … don't do this …"

But the submission – the begging – only seemed to make Angel more vicious; he was slipping into the accent of his youth. "Sure, you never used to beg me so prettily in the old days, William. If you'd begged me like that, I might have seen to your needs more often."

"Never … needed … you …"

Then Angel crushed him hard into the frame of the bed, using all his weight. Spike felt ribs splinter; he cried out and almost passed out from the pain.

~~

Angel hadn't heard him howl like that since ...

The sound of breaking bones made something inside him snap back into focus.

Spike was hurt. Really hurt.

Why was he doing this? Molesting Spike, as though a hundred years and more had passed without him having learned a thing?

Wasn't his soul supposed to stop this stuff from happening?

Angel looked wildly around the room, but there was no one else here to take the blame. His game-face collapsed away as he got to his feet, leaving Spike still crumpled, groaning, against the bed.

Angel hadn't expected bones to break so easily. He bent down and half-lifted, half-dragged Spike up onto the bed.

Spike struggled feebly.

Feeling the resistance, the flinching, and seeing the look of suspicious resentment, Angel realised, in confusion, that Spike really _didn't want him._

Probably never had.

Didn't want him.   
Didn't admire him.   
Didn't respect him – why should he?

He feared him.  
Nothing more.  
And with good reason.

Covering his confusion with action, he ripped through Spike's tee-shirt and examined him with probing fingers.

"Three ribs broken, no more than that."

~~

Spike shivered like a frightened horse, confused by the sudden change. Angel looked pained; taken aback. What was the Poof playing at now? Trying to mess with his head, most likely …

Angel spidered gentle fingers over the faint remains of the operation scar, and the holy water burns still marring Spike's chest and stomach. "Did he – Riley – did he do this to you?" he demanded gruffly.

From somewhere – God only knew where – Spike summoned up a defiant, incredulous, "What the hell d'you care if he did? What's it _to_ you? You just broke my sodding ribs." He winced, feeling them. "That's the third time in a fortnight."

"Did he break your ribs? I'll kill –" Angel stopped, flustered by his own reaction. "I don't care."

But it was a lie and Spike knew it.

"Just listen to yourself will you?" Spike said. "You came here to stake me, one way or another. Or have you forgotten, you big freak? Now you're worried about a few week-old scars?"

Angel sat down heavily on the side of the bed with his head in his hands. "I know. Spike – I'm sorry."

"You're _**SORRY**_." Spike just looked at him in disgust and spat out, _**"Bastard."**_

~~

Rubbing his eyes, Angel said, "I know. It's not enough. It's never enough. But this, today ..."

He moved further down the bed so as not to crowd Spike too much, shaking his head at his own behaviour. "Beyond the Pale."

Spike was silent, leaving him room to apologise some more, so he took it.

"I'm ... I don't know what made me think it was okay – any of it really."

Angel looked up, and seeing Spike's wounded expression, looked down at his hands again. "But killing you ...? What made me think I could do that?"

He heaved a heavy sigh. "This place – this house – seeing Buffy again … and you … with someone … made me a crazy I guess."

He got up from the bed and paced across the room. "Maybe you're right, maybe I just can't stand it when people are happy."

~~

Wide-eyed with shock at this admission from his sire, Spike suggested tentatively, "Wanna pass me the ciggies?"

He suspected he might need to smoke the entire tobacco output of South America in one go.

Angel hurried to retrieve the pack from the floor. "So, Riley didn't do any of this to you?"

"No!" Spike rolled his eyes, sniffed hard and blinked. "Lighter, mate?"

Angel spotted the Zippo and brought it over.

"Of course Riley didn't break my ribs. Think I'd be so sweet on him if he did?"

"Guess not," Angel admitted with a guilt-ridden glance at Spike. "So who did all this to you?"

The nicotine was starting to steady Spike's nerves a little. "Same lot who put this buggering chip up my brain."

"So that's true is it? But there, see? You want it out." There was no sting in Angel's accusation.

"Who wouldn't? I can't even defend myself against women with double buggies. Nearly got gang-raped the other night. Couple of rednecks thought they'd have a bit of fun with me. Humans aren't all angels any more than you are, whatever you like to think."

~~

"Well, neither are you." Angel was still shamefaced as he said it. "Don't forget that time you nearly drained me."

"That was for Dru! You'd have done as much for Buffy!"

That was true. "Then there was the Holy Water –"

"That was Dru's idea, not mine. I wanted her to stay the hell away from you."

Angel snapped his fingers, as though only just remembering. "And three weeks ago you had me run through with hot pokers, and tortured with Mozart."

"That was for vital information," Spike protested, taking another drag from his cigarette, and nearly choking as he said, "I fancied gettin' a suntan."

Angel pondered. "That's fair …"

The Gem of Amara _**had**_ been an awesome toy. He kind of wished he hadn't smashed it. That had been precipitate. Angel stifled a rueful snort of amusement. "Mozart! That's a new one on me."

~~

"Well, you live and learn," Spike said philosophically. "Had you at my mercy then, didn't I?" He risked a look of satisfaction. "But I never took a stake to you, not seriously. Even though you'd messed things up for me and Drusilla. Even though you buggered me blind for nearly twenty years, when you could be bothered, I never threatened you with wood, not in cold blood."

"Till today."

"Self-defence," Spike said reasonably. "I knew you'd come back early."

"Pretty predictable, huh?"

Spike nodded and flicked ash on the floor. "'Fraid so."

Angel looked up at Spike from under that caveman brow of his and smiled. The earlier madness had gone as though it had never been.

"So. Where did you two meet?"

Spike gave Angel a pitying look. Angel just shrugged and Spike relented. Might as well tell him. "Riley got me out of this Porton Down-type place – demon vivisection and extermination. They were holding all sorts of demons prisoner and …"

~~

As Angel listened to the précis, a strange procession of emotions marched across his brain. Pride, at how Spike had comported himself – used the few resources he had to get himself out of there. Longing, for someone to care as much for him as this stranger, Riley Finn, cared for Spike. And what was that other thing? Happiness? Not perfect happiness, of course, but still … Happiness for Spike, that he'd …

"You found a White Knight, in the belly of the beast," Angel said aloud, without intending to. "Who would have thought?"

~~

"Looks like." Spike took a contemplative drag on the remains of his cigarette. "If I don't manage to fuck it up."

Angel looked doubtful. Or was it worried?

"My money says you'll turn on Riley, or turn him, if he lets you."

There was no rancour in it now; only concern.

"Oh, like I turned Willow and Xander when I had the chance. Like I turned Joyce."

"Nice woman," Angel digressed.

Spike nodded sagely. "The best," he said.

"But you're a demon, Spike, you won't be able to control it. You'll get the chip out, he'll say something out of turn and you'll let yourself down. Believe me, it's not easy, even with a soul."

"Well, I can see that," Spike said, allowing a hint of sarcasm to creep back.

"I know, Spike. I know." Angel tapped another cigarette out of the pack, lit it and handed it to him.

"You rely too much on that soul of yours." Spike took a long drag. "It can't do all the work on its own you know. You have to help it."

Angel looked at him with something approaching respect. "I hadn't thought of it like that," he admitted. "But dealing with a human that closely. Dating one –" He paced the room, tossing the stake in the air and catching it. "That's got to be even harder without one. What makes you – or Riley – think you can do this with only one soul between the two of you?"

Spike dropped his gaze. He contemplated saying, "We share …" but resisted the temptation. "I controlled it – the demon. I controlled it last night. Kind-of."

"You said you couldn't hurt humans."

"Except when they give me leave."

There was silence; then Angel said, "He gave you an open door?"

Spike nodded and took another drag.

"But how can you …?"

"I can do it." Spike got up off the bed, even though it hurt. "I can do it, because he believes I can. Because, foolish though it might seem, he trusts me. Got to live up to that, don't I?"

~~

Angel shook his head again, not understanding how this could happen. The younger generation was confusing. All the rules seemed to have changed.

"I don't want to do this any more, Spike. This thing that we do –" Angel looked at Spike frankly. "To each other?"

"Fuck, me neither." Spike's agreement was heartfelt. "What do you suggest?"

"You and Riley – you should leave Sunnydale." Angel turned abruptly in his tracks and pinned Spike with a look. "But don't come to LA."

Spike snorted. "Fine with me. All this sunshine's giving me a headache."

"Family always brings out the worst in us, do you find that?"

Spike nodded. "Some families."

Angel was still puzzling – still pacing. "You work with the hand you're dealt with, I know that. But the hand I got was no worse than yours … my tender ministrations for eighteen years … And yet you …"

~~

They found themselves face to face, and when Spike looked into Angel's eyes and saw the darkness there – the loneliness Angel lived with every day – then, despite himself, despite the past, despite today, even, he felt a stab of pity for him; threw him a bone. "I already knew who and what I was before you laid hands on me …"

They stood like that for a moment.

Angel twitched first. He took a step forward and leaned in slightly, offering himself – with unfamiliar humility – for a kiss. But Spike just swayed back, then stepped back, confused – pained at having to deny him, but doing it all the same. He felt the wall at his back, but he wasn't afraid any more.

They both heard rapid footsteps in the hall outside. Angel gave Spike a gentle shove against the wall. His eyes held no threat. He was holding a stake, but it was pointed carefully so that – even with an accident – it would be bound to miss the heart.

Riley came through the door and saw what he thought was going on. He barrelled into Angel and – to Spike's surprise – knocked Angel off his feet, and lifted him bodily up against the adjacent wall. Riley ripped the stake from Angel's hand and held it poised for a killing blow.

Angel met Spike's gaze calmly; understanding dawned on Spike like a flower opening in the desert.

Angel could easily have withstood Riley's attack if he'd wanted; could have knocked the stake from his hand like swatting a gnat. But the Old Man must have decided not to knock his new guy around; even to let him get in a few licks if he wanted.

Maybe there was hope for the miserable old blighter yet.

Spike silently mouthed, "Thanks."

Angel's eyes briefly showed a hint of gold.

Riley turned towards Spike, holding the stake ready, pressing gently on it. "Want me to dust him for you, or would you like the pleasure?" he said; then he looked Angel coldly in the eye.

Angel let his arms hang limp, offering no resistance.

Riley had him at his mercy now, for real.

"Well Spike?"

Both of them said it; both looking to him, for the thumbs-up or thumbs-down.

Spike held Angel's gaze. He was offering his life in penance: not for all the wrongs he'd done to mankind, but for the wrongs he'd done to William; to Spike.

It was the hardest decision Spike had ever had to make.

How many times had he wished his sire were dust? How many times had he dreamed of plunging wood into Angelus' black heart, or imagined holding the stake ready and listening to Angel pleading to be spared, before despatching him without mercy?

What if it were him holding the stake now, instead of Riley?

Would he do it then?

Maybe.

Would he let Riley do his dirty work – carry this baggage for him?

"No," Spike said. "Let him go, Riley."

"_**What?**_ You mean that?" Riley said, gritting his teeth. "I'd be happy to oblige. More than happy after what he's done."

"I'm positive."

Maybe there was something he could prove to Angel, after all. He'd heard there were some pretty good views from the moral high ground. He took a deep breath. "Like I said before, mate. Water under the bridge."

It was hard to tell, with Angel, whether he was relieved, surprised, or disappointed. "You're letting me go?" he said.

"Why not?" Spike managed to flash him a smirk. "Can't think of anything you'd hate more than to be in my debt."

Riley was less sanguine. "Get out of here – I don't care whose house it is. We'll be gone by tomorrow. But come near us again – lay a finger on Spike again – and I'll take you apart with my bare hands." He pressed the stake against Angel's chest for emphasis. "And that's an Iowa Promise."

He stepped back to let Angel pass, staying between Angel and Spike.

"No need to mate." Spike shot Angel a last self-satisfied grin as he patted Riley on the shoulder. "Job done."

Angel turned and made his way down the hallway. As he went, he spoke softly, so only dogs and vampires would hear it: "Good luck Spike."

The shadow of Angelus lifted from Spike for the last time.

At least, that was how it should have ended.

But nothing was ever that simple, was it?


	4. Breaking and Mending

Spike closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath, and as he let it go, he felt some of the foulness of the past sloughing away. Not all of it; not even most of it, but some. The last hour wasn't something he'd want to repeat, but still … it had cleared the air.

But when he opened his eyes again, Riley was looking at him strangely.

Spike frowned. "You okay?" he said.

Riley didn't reply, but scanned the room. His gaze rested for a moment on the two cigarette butts and corresponding piles of ash on the floor, then he seemed to be considering the signs of struggle: the furniture in disarray; the Bible, like a broken-backed bird, its pages coming away from its spine; the poker on the floor among the remains of a vase; the broken lamp.

A cold hand touched Spike's heart. Riley didn't seem to want to look at _him_ any more.

"So, Spike. When are you planning to stop treating me like an idiot?"

"What?" Spike said. The hand tightened its grip. "I'm not –"

"You played me," Riley said, looking down at his clenched fists. "The two of you. You and Angel together, you played me."

Spike felt his stomach drop six feet through the floor. "No, Riley, that's not what happ-"

"So what happened then?" Riley looked him in the eye, demanding, begging for an honest answer.

But now it was Spike's turn to avert his gaze. In a low monotone he said, "We fought, he won. Like always. He nearly dusted me. Thanks for the save."

"Right," Riley said. He looked around in exasperation. "So, you had a big fight, stopped for a cigarette break, then went at it again? That how it was?"

Spike felt sick. The half-truth had trapped him, and now he had to lie for real. He bit his lip. "I smoked those before he arrived."

Riley snorted out a cynical laugh. "So how come the room is trashed but the ash from your cigarettes is still in nice neat piles?" He turned away. "Nice try, but no cigar." He ran a hand through his hair. "God, I thought you might like it rough, but this …"

That stung. "I don't, okay?" Spike struck back. "I don't like it rough. Just never had any bloody say in the matter. And when did you turn into Sherlock bleedin' Holmes?"

"You smoke after intercourse," Riley said.

With that single sentence, Spike was accused, tried and convicted.

"'S not the only time," Spike muttered.

Riley blinked hard, and Spike was mortified to see tears shining in his eyes. That twist of guilt in his guts was getting familiar.

"You know, sometimes I wish I _was_ as dumb as people think I am," Riley said. "You fought – okay, I can see that. I believe it. But that was just –" His voice faltered. He dashed a hand across his eyes. "That was just foreplay to you wasn't it? You fought, you had sex, you smoked, then you … what? Set up that little scene to make a fool out of me?" He shook his head. "I couldn't have beat Angel, you said so yourself."

"You caught him by surprise." Spike said. He pursed his lips.

"Don't feed me that crap, Spike, it was way too easy. No one gives it up like that – hands you their life on a plate – and you know it."

"Just be thankful you beat him," Spike said sourly. "I never have."

"Beat him? Bullshit. He wanted me to think I beat him." Riley sliced the air with his hand. "And what hurts worst, so did you."

Spike could hear Riley's heart, and it was racing. "No, it wasn't like that, Riley, please …"

Why was he lying?

Spike hardly knew who – or what – he was trying to protect, he was curled around it so tightly; that aching tender place deep inside, where he was ever and always a victim: that was what he didn't want Riley to see; where he didn't want Riley to go.

The reason Angel felt the need to offer his life in payment.

Because he had muzzled and chained and incarcerated Spike in that place, and part of Spike would always be there, however hard Riley might try to free him.

Now Riley was striding over to him, and as he came he was rolling his sleeve up over his bicep – over the mark he'd made the night before – and scratching it bloody. "What did this mean to you Spike? Huh? What was all that about?"

Riley gripped the back of Spike's head and pressed the mark against his mouth, and Spike had to fight to stop himself dropping fangs and sinking them in.

"Is this all I am to you?" Riley said. "A food source? A walking blood bank?"

Spike turned his head away. "No –"

Riley jerked Spike's head back and away, releasing him: his action laden with contempt. "You seemed pretty friendly with your 'rapist'. You hate him so much, why didn't you let me kill him?"

"It's … complicated." That sounded pathetic even to Spike's ears.

Riley shook his head. "Not good enough. And when's your next assignation, eh, Spike? Was he planning on turning up wherever we happened to be? I come back here, my bridges goin' up in smoke behind me, again, and you … you … and he …" Riley's voice cracked with emotion, and he turned his face away.

Spike hadn't known there was any part of his heart left unbroken until now. It was tearing him apart to see what he was doing to Riley, but all he could offer was, "Like I said, it's complicated –"

"And I'm simple?" Riley said. His face flushed. "Is that what it is? I'm too stupid to understand?"

"No …"

Riley passed a hand over his eyes, his mouth. His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "You lied to me, Spike – after you promised …"

He was shaking his head again, in helpless incomprehension.

They stood like misplaced statues, each alone in his misery: Spike, unable to find any words; Riley, waiting in silence for something – anything – that would make him understand.

But there was nothing.

Riley broke first.

"I can't …"

He threw his hands wide then let them drop to his sides. "Doesn't matter. Just be out of here before Angel gets back. Or don't. Whatever."

He strode down the hallway towards the front door.

Dragged along by his gravity, Spike caught hold of his arm. "Riley, please …"

But Riley shrugged him off and went on out into the daylight, where Spike couldn't follow. He steamed down the path not looking back and Spike just stood watching, paralysed with fear, unable even to speak.

It was bright outside; only a single cloud across the sun.

His man was at the gate.

He gave a cracked and choking cry, "Riley!"

~~

His face set in miserable resolve, Riley turned back, to see Spike stepping out of the shadow of the porch and into the daylight. Spreading his arms in crucifixion, Spike looked up at the sky, tensed every muscle in his body, and closed his eyes.

The edge of the cloud was silvered – the full sun would be on Spike at any moment.

Riley yelled out, _**"Get inside!" **_but Spike didn't even blink.

Even now, there were curls of smoke rising from Spike's upturned hands and face, and the tops of his arms; even his shoulders which were covered by his tee shirt. Riley launched himself back down the path, crashed into Spike and landed on top of him, just inside the front door. The smell of charring flesh told him just how close it had been.

He sat up astride Spike, took in his singed hair and reddened skin, and caught him a stinging slap across the face. _**"What the hell was that?"**_

Spike was taking shallow, panicked breaths, but he was as obstinate as ever. "Why d'you care what I do now?" he said. "'M just a bloody vampire, who's used you, drained you, lied to you, wrecked your brilliant career in demon correction –"

"Stop that. Stop playing me!" Riley grabbed Spike by the shoulders and shook him; looked desperately into his eyes for some clue. "Was it all a lie? What do you want from me? I've given you everything. Everything I've got. I trusted you, Spike, but you still don't trust me. You don't trust me –"

Almost berserk, he slapped Spike again, hard, then gasped and covered his mouth with the offending hand.

But Spike looked up at him without complaint: disturbingly accepting of his punishment. He took Riley's hand and pressed it to his cheek. "I do trust you Riley, with my life, I swear it. Do what you want with me, anything, but please for God's sake stay. Chain me up, gag me, hit me, do what you want …"

Riley shook his head. "That's not what I mean, and you know it. That's just physical. You don't trust me … with what I want." His face crumpled. "With your heart …"

~~

Why would Riley want anything so worn and broken? How could he show this man that he already had it in the palm of his hand?

Spike sat up and reached to touch Riley's face, but Riley flinched; wouldn't look at him.

"I trust you, Riley. I do. But there's things … things I don't want to remember … Can't say 'em out loud, not to you, not to anyone. Things I can't trust myself to think about … I can't tell you _everything_, however much I want to, however much I trust you. It just … it hurts too much."

"I bet you could talk to _**him**_ about them," Riley said miserably.

"I don't have to," Spike said. "He's responsible for most of them." He closed his eyes, trying not to remember his countless capitulations; pleas for mercy or for relief. "Nearly started on me again today. Stopped himself, mostly …"

Now Spike felt Riley's hand touch his face. Kid wanted to trust him, but Spike knew he wasn't making it easy for him. "Please, Riley, I'm beggin' you – at least let it … scab over a bit before I talk about it?"

Riley gripped Spike's shoulders, as if to squeeze the answer out of him. "So … you can't tell me … what that little charade back there was for?"

Spike floundered. He wanted so badly to make things right, but it was true, what Riley'd said; they _had_ played him, hadn't they? But not for the reasons Riley thought. He'd been an agent of healing; a salve to their wounds, not their fool, though that was how it must look.

"I'm sorry, mate, it just – happened that way. We fought. He won. That's the truth. He nearly lost it, but then he – I dunno, had some kind of epiphany or somethin'. Said he was sorry. Then you came in, and … I don't know why we acted out like that." Spike shook his head. "It just felt right."

"Well, it felt all wrong to me," Riley said.

Riley loosed his hold, and as Spike fell back to the floor he felt a stab of pain; hissed and clutched at his ribs.

Still suspicious, "What's the matter?" Riley said.

"Wanker broke my ribs. Again." Gritting his teeth, Spike hauled himself to his feet and leaned against the wall for support. "Bit rough for foreplay don't you think?"

Riley went to him and felt his ribs, seeming to do so with more professional care than affection. "Wait here, I'll get my med-kit," he said, turning towards the door.

Spike snatched at Riley's arm; didn't want him going out of sight.

Riley pushed his hand away. "Don't come running outside after me again," he said. He almost sounded bored. "I'm coming back."

"Promise?" Spike said quietly.

Riley sighed. "Promise," he said.

Even more quietly, Spike said, "Sunnydale or Iowa?"

A muscle ticked in Riley's jaw. "Don't push it Spike, I'm not in the mood."

Spike lowered his gaze, and – chastened – let him go.

~~

When Riley came back, he was cool, efficient, and shuttered.

But here; still here.

He lifted Spike's tee-shirt, and wrapped some wide bandages around his chest to stabilise his ribs. Neither of them said a word during the procedure. Spike kept his eyes lowered rather than see the fearfully businesslike look on Riley's face.

When he was satisfied with the job he'd done, Riley systematically packed his kit away and stood up. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm tired," he said with brittle courtesy. "I'll need to get some sleep if we're going to be driving far tonight. I suggest you do the same."

Afraid to speak in case he fucked things up again, Spike just nodded.

Then Riley went into to bedroom, threw himself down on the bed, and fell almost instantly asleep.

Spike heaved a deep and painful sigh of relief. Riley was staying. There was time to sort this out.

He went to the bed and looked down at Riley as he lay, sleeping; his jaw set in an angry line; his brow, fretful; his hands, crossed on his chest like a patriarch lying in state. Fearing to wake him, Spike fought the urge to kiss one of those hands. Instead, he lay down on the floor at the foot of the bed, and tried to get some sleep as Riley had told him to.

~~

When Riley awoke, it was getting dusk. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Spike was lying awkwardly near his feet; lying on a stone floor, with his bones broken, just like he had been in the Initiative cell.

Riley felt a stab of guilt.

At least this time, Spike had been patched up.

Neither of them was in the best shape of their lives. Riley couldn't believe he'd hit Spike – twice. Maybe he was suffering some kind of withdrawal from the 'vitamins' he was no longer taking. Good job he'd brought them with him; might need to come off them a bit at a time. But there was no excuse for it, no matter how upset he was, or how scared he'd been for Spike.

He still wasn't sure where they stood, or what was going on in that messed up head of Spike's; but perhaps it was better just to get moving; leave the post mortem for later. All he knew for sure was that he loved Spike: enough to leave him, if that was what Spike wanted. But Spike didn't want him to leave, that was plain as day.

Good enough.

He leaned down and patted Spike on the shoulder. "Time we got going," he said.

Spike opened his eyes, and relief shone in them. "Whatever you say, mate."

They went out to Riley's SUV without another word. It was packed to the roof, and so was the roof rack. Spike raised an eyebrow. "Loaded for bear?"

"Had to be. Don't know where we're going yet, and who or what – if anything – will be coming after us."

Spike nodded, and they got in.

~~

They'd been driving for about an hour, when Spike said, "We agreed never to meet again."

Riley turned to look at him, but Spike was still staring at the road ahead. "You and Angel agreed?" Riley said.

"'S right."

Riley supposed he should be relieved, but he couldn't help digging. He wanted to get the worst over. "So that was – what? A 'goodbye' fuck?"

"No!" Spike said. "We didn't do anything. Not like that. I told you, he tried …"

Riley looked across again, but Spike studiously refused to meet his eyes.

"I know I said this before but it's true, Riley. It's complicated. I say things, he says things … we set each other off, then –"

"You're not blaming yourself … for today?"

"No." Spike looked at his fingernails, then bit at them thoughtfully. "Well, partly," he said. "If I'd kept my trap shut instead of goadin' him … He came to kill me alright, but instead of talking him down when I had the chance, I did the opposite. Then it all kicked off …"

For the first time since he'd met the vampire, Riley thought he looked his age. There was a wistful sadness in the set of Spike's jaw, the slump of his shoulders. It must be hard, saying goodbye to someone for the last time, after an acquaintance spanning a century and more. After that length of time, he imagined even old enemies might start to look like old friends. And it looked like Angel was one of those guys who, whenever he was around, everything was always about him.

Wasn't Spike's fault.

The bitter dregs of his anger began to be left behind them, with the white lines on the road. He took his right hand off the wheel and laid it on Spike's thigh, and Spike tentatively placed his own over it and twined their fingers together. He looked like he was choking back tears.

With his free hand, Spike managed to get out a cigarette and light it, without having to relinquish his hold on Riley.

"You can tell me as much, or as little as you want to, Spike. I can wait."

Spike smoked. He still looked sad.

When the cigarette was gone, he fell asleep with his head resting against the side window.

~~

When Riley parked up and cut the engine, Spike blinked awake. He glanced nervously across at Riley, who smiled and said quietly, "Hey."

Still a little afraid to speak, Spike nodded acknowledgement. He looked out of the window, and when he saw where they had pulled in, it was a bit of a shock. He'd been expecting Riley to stop at some seedy motel on the outskirts of wherever. What he definitely hadn't expected was to have the front door of a swanky hotel held open for him by a liveried doorman. He'd have been less surprised to see a white rabbit in a waistcoat inviting him in.

The fellow looked through him without displaying any emotion known to man, then took Riley's travel bag to the polished maple reception desk without a word.

There, a young receptionist with a slightly knowing air – 'Jason', according to his nametag – completed the formalities. Riley made sure they were given a double room where smoking was permitted. It wasn't the cheapest one either, but that didn't stop Jason saying, "And as one of our valued customers, I'm pleased to offer you a complimentary upgrade." He looked exceedingly pleased with himself.

Spike's eyes widened but Riley was un-phased. "That's great, thanks."

"And if there's _**anything**_ you need, anything at all, you _**only**_ have to ask."

"Well, actually …" Riley glanced at Spike and then leaned closer to Jason and whispered something to him.

Spike's eyes widened still further, but Jason nodded as if he dealt with similar requests every day. "I'll have some sent up within the hour," he said. "Will room temperature be alright?"

Riley nodded.

Jason took an imprint from one of the credit cards from Riley's wallet, and called a bellboy in macaroni to show them to their room.

Spike said nothing throughout the proceedings. All this felt very odd. Sure, he'd stayed in posh hotels on someone else's dollar before now, but then it was a dollar he'd swiped. Now he was here by right, and he couldn't help expecting security to drag him from Riley's side and escort him from the premises.

His filthy boots sank silently into the plush carpet.

Only when the bellboy had finished showing Riley where everything in the room was, and how it worked, and left – with a reasonable tip – did Spike say, "Riley, are you sure you can –"

"Afford this? Don't worry. Military pay isn't the best in the world, but I haven't had time or cause to spend much of it over the years." Riley looked almost shy. "Or anyone I wanted to spend it on."

Spike cocked his head and smiled, as the warmth of Riley's oblique compliment spread though him. "Still … you didn't have to –"

"After what you've been through, you deserve to sleep somewhere decent," Riley said. "And anyway, we both need rest, and time to think. I have some ideas, but I need to work them out, and this is a better place than most."

So Spike went to explore the room, leaving Riley making notes on the hotel's watermarked stationary.

Half an hour later, Jason appeared at the door with a flask of blood on a silver tray.

~~

Spike loved getting things for free. Not just lifting stuff. Better than that, was being given things, whether he deserved them or not. A century and more he'd spent taking stuff – whatever he wanted, from just about whoever he wanted to take it from – but it was a still more wondrous thing to be given something freely.

Like the complimentary champagne in the ice-bucket on the occasional table in the corner of the bedroom.

Like the fabulous basket of bath bombs, massage oils, shower gels, hand-made soap, face packs, body scrubs and whatall in the bathroom.

Yeah, he knew; Riley's credit card was paying for those things really, but still …

Like the chocolates they found on the pillow when they'd finished in the bathroom and taken refuge in the huge bed.

Like this thing … this thing that Riley was doing to him. Didn't deserve that either …

Didn't deserve to be lying in this bed – the most comfortable bed he'd ever lain in, or got laid in – waiting for the other glass slipper to drop and shatter on the floor, so he'd never know whether it would have fitted or not. But it was already way past midnight, so maybe in the morning his coach would still be a coach, and maybe he wouldn't be raking cold ashes out of the grate, while Angelus and Darla and even Drusilla cackled about the ball they were attending tonight, without him.

Didn't deserve that careful soaping and lathering Riley had given him just now that left him warm and aroused, and allowed him to hope that maybe he was halfway to being forgiven.

Didn't deserve to have his wrists tied to the headboard, with the slimmest of cords he could have broken in a heartbeat if he'd wanted; just there to remind him that he didn't have to do anything.

Nothing at all.

Didn't deserve Riley's hands on him, waking every part of him, calling his heart out of hiding again …

Didn't deserve that look on Riley's face; oh … maybe he did. There was sadness there as well as love.

Angry with himself, he felt his demon rise, and saw that look of sadness dismissed by one of fierce pride as Riley watched his unicorn transform into a lion beneath his touch; a lion held back by no prohibition, but only threads of silk and bonds of love.

Spike said what was on his mind. "I don't deserve any of this."

But Riley shook his head. "You don't have to," he said.

He pressed a kiss on each of Spike's eyelids in turn, and Spike's astonished heart expanded; at last he allowed himself to really believe … he was loved.

"You don't have to deserve stuff, to get it," Riley murmured. He let his hips dip so that his cock brushed teasingly against Spike's, and Spike arched and flexed to get more of it. Riley lowered himself further, pressing his smooth forehead against Spike's ridged brow.

"You didn't deserve to get vamped. Didn't deserve … whatever happened after –"

A moan arose in Spike's throat and he closed his eyes, for fear that he might set something on fire, the pain still burned so bright within him.

"– and I didn't deserve to be lied to –"

Spike turned his face away, but felt Riley's hand on his cheek, turning him back. Then Riley kissed him on the mouth, and cut his lip on Spike's fangs but didn't flinch or pull away, and soon Spike was there with him again.

"But you know what Spike? No one gets what they deserve. The pluses and minuses never add up or balance out." Riley glanced down between them, then ground their hips together a little harder. "So I suggest you just relax, lie back, and take what you're given."

Oh; he definitely didn't deserve this.

~~

At lunchtime the next day, Riley picked up the battered business card Spike had given him and dialled the number. His heart was pounding painfully as he waited for it to be answered.

"Angel Investigations, we … um … help the helpless."

The voice at the end of the line sounded old, and tired, and pretty damn helpless itself.

"Angel?"

"Yeah."

"It's Riley."

"Oh." There was a pregnant pause. "Is Spike –?"

"He's fine. But I need … we need a favour."

"Name it," Angel said. "Anything."

Well, that was … expansive. "It's nothing big," Riley said. "But it could attract unwanted attention to your people."

"I'm used to unwanted attention," Angel said. "Go on."

"I'm resigning my army commission. At least, I hope they'll accept my resignation, considering I'm already AWOL – and I don't want to give away our location until I have my discharge papers in my hand. You're not on their radar, so I was hoping that if I ask for the documents to be sent to the main Post Office in LA, poste restante, maybe you or one of your people could collect them for me. Just in case they put the Post Office under surveillance to try and take us in. I guess you might need to get fake ID in my name."

"Not a problem." There was a pause. Angel was evidently taking notes. "What if nothing comes?"

"I think they'll let me go. I've asked for it to be an honourable discharge, but I haven't made that a condition. I think my CO would rather not risk the publicity of a court martial. I've got stuff on them they'll want me to keep quiet about." Riley rubbed his jaw. "I'll call you again in a week to check, but I'm expecting a positive result."

"What do I do with them when I pick them up?"

"Post them on, care of Riley Finn, F-I-double N, at the poste restante in Kansas City? I'll pick them up there."

"Sure. Consider it done." There was another pause; maybe Angel was considering the fact that Riley had given him another mail drop rather than a proper address.

Riley decided to fill the silence. "I know you let me win on purpose," he said. "I don't have the beating of you."

"Oh." This time the silence at Angel's end of the line was a perplexed one. "Is that a problem?"

"No. Well, yeah, kind-of. I don't get it. I mean, I'm glad you didn't kill me but … just so you know; if it was meant to tell me something … I don't get it."

"Spike'll explain it. When he's ready. It shouldn't take him long, he likes to talk."

Riley nodded, as though Angel could see him. "Well that's good, because I like to listen."

"Good. And Riley?"

"Yeah."

…

"Take care of him."

Angel sounded like someone had crushed the life out of him, but even so, Riley thought he detected the hint of a threat. He wondered whether, given a hundred years, he might start to understand vampires.

"Don't need you to tell me that," Riley said.

"I kind-of guessed you didn't," Angel replied. Then line went dead.

~~

Afternoon Tea and Room Service were, in Spike's opinion, both fine institutions, and ones with which he was happy to re-acquaint himself.

Riley didn't understand the rituals but he was willing to learn.

They poured boiling water. They stirred. They brewed. It was leaf tea, so they strained as well. Milk in first, of course. Sugar lumps with little silver tongs to pick them up.

Spike watched the bubbles swirling on the surface of his tea.

Might as well get it out there.

"Angel felt he owed me an apology – big time," Spike said. "That was why he didn't fight back. Why he was ready to die on my word."

There was a chink as Riley laid his teaspoon carefully in the saucer.

Feeling the full glare of his attention Spike had to look away.

"He wanted to clear things up between us. Let me end him, or give him a free pass. Clean slate kind-of deal." He shot a glance at Riley.

"Offering to give up eternity – that's a pretty big apology," Riley said. He looked a little shaken. "What he must have –"

Spike shook his head slightly. "Don't even think about it," he said. "It'll make you crazy. You know the bones of it, so just leave it at that, yeah?"

Riley nodded. "If that's how you want it."

But Spike could see he was still puzzled. "Okay, whatever it is, spit it out, mate."

"I still don't understand," Riley said. "Why he didn't just let _you_ kill him? Why wait until I got back?"

"Wasn't about you – but it wouldn't have happened without you. Couldn't have." Spike looked up at Riley now, trying not to resent the truth of what he was about to say. "He'd never have been able to submit to me in person. Not like he could to you."

"Because ...?"

"You're human. And he's not your sire."

~~

Riley felt the tightness in his chest slowly releasing its grip. Things still seemed pretty opaque, but what Spike said made a kind of sense.

"So – this is us now, right?" Riley said. "Together? You're not gonna change your mind about me – get bored? I mean, after the life you've lived so far … I'm not the most interesting guy in the world –"

"Well, your marketing strategy needs some work," Spike said, chuckling. "But don't fret about it. Said I love you didn't I? I don't say it unless it's for keeps."

Encouraged, Riley went somewhere else that angels feared to tread.

"What's going to happen, Spike? When I'm old, and you're still … mid-twenties or whatever you are. What's going to happen to me? To us? I keep thinking, when I'm middle-aged, when I'm old, when I'm dead – that guy, Angel, he'll still be young. If he still wants you, he could come and find you. He's got forever to do it. He'll find you and take you back. I couldn't bear it – if I was going to die, knowing that he'd show up and you'd end up back with him again … like we'd never been."

"It won't happen, I promise you that. Iowa Promise."

"But you two go back such a long way -" Riley said. "And what if he tried to force you?"

~~

Spike shook his head. "He won't force me. Not now, not any more." He laid a hand on Riley's. "Don't worry. We'll work it out. And anyway," he added cheerfully, swiping a cherry off the top of one of the cakes on the stand in the middle of the table. "I might fall on a picket fence next week, or get decapitated by a combine harvester."

Riley made a face.

"I'm just sayin'. We can't live our lives wondering what'll happen next year or in the next fifty years."

Truth was, he didn't want to think about it. The last hundred years seemed to have flown by, and Riley probably had another … what? … fifty years – seventy, if he was lucky. In loving a human, Spike knew he was setting himself up for potential heartbreak. But it would be worth it.

"But –"

"I'll be with you," Spike said. "For as long as you want me. And you never know, there might come a time – when you don't want to feel old – maybe you'll want to join me, in the blood. Sitting in the shade's not so bad, if you can see the light on the fields."

He poured another cup of tea, letting the kid think about it; but Riley looked worried, so he added, "Not sayin' that's what _I_ want. I'm not gonna trade you in for a younger model, if that's what's worrying you. But I could turn you … one day … if _you_ wanted."

"No … I … it's not that I think it's so bad, being like you. I just don't think it's for me … the whole eternity thing."

"Well, if you change your mind …"

"I might," Riley conceded. "Don't think so somehow though. I'm a farm-boy at heart. Cycle of life and death seems natural to me. Seems right. But I might …"

"And if you don't –" Spike paused and lit up a cigarette: "– well, maybe when you've gone, I'll decide to take a last walk in the sun after all."

Riley took both of Spike's hands in his. "Don't say that," he begged Spike.

"It's my life Riley," Spike said. "If I have to accept your death, you should be able to accept mine."

~~

When the sun went down, Riley paid the bill and they headed out to the SUV.

"Am I gonna get to drive this atrocity at some point?" Spike demanded.

"Sure you are. But not if you insult it." Riley stroked the top of his vehicle. "It gets sensitive."

"Fine. You take first stint driving, and I'll try and get in its good graces by not putting my feet on the dash."

"You do that." Riley smiled goofily and held open the passenger door. "So, get in Thelma."

Spike looked at him suspiciously. "You've been waiting all day to say that, I'll wager. Besides, if I have to be one of those two, dibs on Louise. Susan Sarandon rocks. No-one even remembers the other chick's name."

Riley laughed. "Out of us two, which of us is packing a weapon?"

"You took a gun into the hotel?" Spike said, boggling.

"More than one, actually."

"Right then!" Spike raised his hand in mock-surrender. "No argument, I'm Thelma."

They drove.

Spike found a radio station playing 'Radar Love'.

Riley had never heard it before.

"Gonna have to work on your musical education, mate."

"Please do," Riley replied with a grin.

~~

Their knees bumped together companionably as they felt the miles slide beneath them.

Riley turned and shot an uncomplicated smile at Spike, and said, "I think you're gonna love my mom."

Was that a trace of fear he detected in Spike's eyes? He felt a glow of satisfaction starting in the pit of his stomach.

"I'm gonna _meet_ your mum?"

"Sure. You'll love her."

"I doubt the feelin'll be mutual," Spike said, looking worried.

"Sure it will. She loves to take in strays."

"Hey, I am not a –" Spike pointed a reproving finger at Riley, then smacked him on the back of the head.

They drove on into the night.

~~

They collected Riley's discharge papers two weeks later, in Kansas City. The grounds for his discharge were cited as 'emotional instability'. He wasn't going to make an issue of it. At least now, it looked like they weren't going to be actively pursued.

It was safe to head for home.

 

_ **Epilogue** _

It was getting near Christmas, and Clem was feeling nostalgic. Sentimental demon that he was he was missing Spike, even though the tetchy old vamp had only stayed with him the one day, had run off without saying goodbye, and never even left an address. So when Clem went into Willy's for a drink after doing some Christmas shopping, he was overjoyed when the eponymous bartender handed him a postcard that was waiting for him behind the bar. It bore an Iowa postmark, and the picture was of a cornfield.

"Clem.   
Thanks for everything, mate.   
I owe you one.   
And by the way – we're not in Kansas anymore."

It was signed with a picture of a railroad spike, and a squiggle that might just have been a kiss.

**~~ FIN ~~**


End file.
